


The King In Waiting

by imaginary_golux



Series: Coats and Customs 'verse [7]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 44,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he is nineteen, Estel discovers his true destiny…But there is more to being king than a sword and a prophecy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Estel

Estel’s father died many years ago, and Estel does not remember him, but he knows that the faraway look in his mother’s eyes is because of Father-who-is-dead. Lord Elrond is not Estel’s father, but he teaches Estel to read and write, sends him to tutors who teach him swordplay and history and geography. Mother teaches him to be swift and silent in the woods, to ride a horse and shoot a bow, and Estel thinks she is the best warrior in the world. When he tells Glorfindel this, Glorfindel laughs for a long time, and then he tells Estel that Estel is absolutely correct.

Most of the people in Rivendell are elves, except Estel and Mother who are Men, and sometimes Prince Bilbo visits and brings _dwarves_ with him, and Estel follows Gimli son of Gloin around the one time he visits, because Gimli is young and curious too, and Estel asks him all sorts of questions about dwarves and hobbits because they’re so _short_ compared to the elves and Mother, and Prince Bilbo has furry feet and Lady Dis has a long black beard and lots of braids, and it is all very exciting. Estel asks his mother if he will have a beard when he grows up, and she laughs and tells him that he can if he wants to but most Rangers shave because it is easier to stay clean.

All of the elves of Rivendell pat Estel on the head and tell him how fast he is growing, how soon he will be a man. They give each other strange looks, sometimes, when they say that, and Estel is clever enough and observant enough to know that there is some great secret attached to his coming of age. The Rangers, too, treat him oddly, and with great deference even though he is so young, and sometimes they speak privately with his mother, in low voices and with serious expressions. He asks his mother about it when he is thirteen, and she smiles, but there is something very sad behind the smile. “Yes,” she tells him, “there is something I will tell you when you are old enough. Please try to be patient until then, dear heart.”

Estel is an obedient child, and so he is patient. It is hard sometimes, because _everyone_ seems to know the secret except him, even Elladan and Elrohir who get into trouble all the time because they run around and poke their noses into things and sometimes accidentally break important pieces of art, and Lord Elrond gets a funny line between his eyebrows and mutters under his breath. But there is much to do and learn in Rivendell, and even when Estel is seventeen, he is still finding new places, hidden rooms and little side gardens, books in the library he’s never seen before, so the secret does not bother him too much, except for every year on his birthday, when he wonders a little whether _this_ will be the year he is old enough to know.

When Estel is nineteen, he is still not old enough, apparently, either to know the secret or to go on the Quest of the Ring. Estel is more than a little dismayed by this, because it’s a _quest_. Half the history books in the library are about epic quests, and Estel had a good six months of quiet mortification every time he saw Glorfindel after the time he read about Glorfindel killing the Balrog, and _Mother_ is going on the Quest, and Estel wants so very, very badly to be a hero. If he is a hero, then Mother will be even prouder of him, and Lord Elrond will be proud of him, and Elladan and Elrohir will have to stop tugging on his ears and calling him ‘little one,’ and maybe – just maybe – the astonishingly beautiful Lady Arwen will smile at him.

The months until Mother returns are long and tense. Lord Elrond looks constantly stressed, the little line between his eyebrows never fading; Elladan and Elrohir do not joke; Glorfindel does not tell stories. Sometimes there is news, from one source or another: Lady Galadriel sends word from Lorien that Gandalf the Grey has fallen, and the Fellowship is now led by Lady Gilraen. Estel frets over her safety; if something could slay Gandalf, of all people, how will his mother survive?

Then there is word that Gandalf is not dead, by some strange fate and the will of the Valar; and then a great shudder throughout the world, like an earthquake, like the shudder when Estel was seven that meant that Gandalf had defeated the Necromancer. Lord Elrond sighs, and a little of the tension goes out of his shoulders, and Glorfindel smiles his tiny smile again, but still they wait in hope for word of the Fellowship.

Word comes first from Belegost, that King Thorin has recovered from his madness, and Lord Elrond seems pleased to hear it, but though this is proof the Ring has been destroyed, it is not yet proof that the Fellowship has survived its destruction. So they wait, and wait, and Estel haunts the lookouts which watch the southern approaches and does not dare to ask for news.

The day the Fellowship rides over a hill and into sight, nine of them hale and well, is one of the best days Estel can remember, better than any of his birthdays or the day he managed to get a touch on Glorfindel. His mother is riding near the front of the Fellowship, tall and stern and beautiful with her sword at her side, and Estel hangs over the edge of the parapet and fills his eyes with the sight of her, safe and coming home at last. He does not even care, for once, that Lady Arwen is also visible. His mother is coming home a hero, and safe, and that is all that matters.

That night, Gandalf and Gilraen and Dis and Primrose tell the story of the Quest of the Ring, and Estel hangs upon their every word. His mother, it turns out, is a mighty hero, as he has always suspected: Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer, savior of Minas Tirith! He claps and cheers when Primrose finishes her part of the tale, describing the tall Nazgul on his black horse and Gilraen’s clever tactics against him. His mother grins at him across the table, proud and embarrassed in equal measure, and Prince Bilbo, at the head of the table beside Lord Elrond, toasts to Gilraen the Great, and everyone drinks.

Estel want to grow up to be even half the hero his mother is.

The next morning, after Prince Bilbo and Lady Dis and Kili and Primrose and Gimli all set out for Belegost, Prince Bilbo beaming at the news that King Thorin has been cured of Ring-madness, Gilraen and Gandalf bring Estel to a small room, and his mother looks gravely up at him – he has finally grown taller than her. His mother takes a deep breath.

“Estel,” she says solemnly, “I have often told you that you have a high destiny; that is why you are fostered with Lord Elrond, instead of raised among the Dunedain.” Estel realizes, with a sudden shock of wonder, that he is about to learn the great secret. He leans forward. “It is time now that I tell you of who you truly are,” his mother finishes slowly.

“Am I not Estel of the Dunedain?” Estel asks curiously. Certainly all of the Rangers who come to Rivendell greet him as one of their own.

“You are,” his mother tells him, “and you are more.” She takes a deep breath, as if the telling is hard for her. “For at your birth, your father named you Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the line of Isildur, and true heir to the throne of Gondor.”

Estel’s jaw drops. Whatever he was expecting, this was not it. “ _I_ am Isildur’s heir?”

Estel goes to bed that night as Aragorn, son of Arathorn and Gilraen, heir of Gondor, with a prophecy ringing in his mind and his mother’s promise in his heart, and for a little while, alone in his bed with nothing but his thoughts for company, he thinks that perhaps he would have preferred to be Estel, son of no one in particular, who grew up to be a hero like his mother. But fate does not work like that, and it is Aragorn who rises from his bed in the morning. He will not reach his majority for a year and a half, but yesterday, Estel was a boy, and this morning, Aragorn is a man.


	2. Belegost

Aragorn looks up at the mountains which house Belegost and feels rather small. It’s an odd feeling, given that he’s surrounded by hobbits and going to meet dwarves, but the mountains do have that effect – that, and the fact that he has never been so far outside of Rivendell in his life. Now here he is, sent by his mother to spend three years studying under Prince Bilbo and King Thorin, to learn how to govern a kingdom of mortals.

Prince Bilbo is waiting for him at the entrance to Belegost, along with ten or fifteen dwarves, most of whom seem to be more interested in the carts of food which Aragorn has accompanied into the mountains. Prince Bilbo ushers Aragorn away from the bustle of unloading. “Be welcome to Belegost, Aragorn,” he says cheerfully, and Aragorn bows deeply.

“It is my honor to be here,” he says. “My mother sends her thanks for your kindness in hosting me.”

Prince Bilbo grins. “It is our pleasure,” he replies. “May I make known to you Bofur son of Frar, a friend of mine?” Aragorn bows to the dwarf in the absurd hat, who is standing beside Bilbo. Bofur grins back. “He will be your guide while you are in Belegost – the tunnels can be confusing for those unused to them, and I cannot take you into the forges or the deep mines.” Prince Bilbo shrugs ruefully. “My bare feet are not appropriate for forge work.”

Aragorn nods; that makes good sense.

“But here I am babbling! Follow me, please; we have prepared a room for you in the Royal Apartments.” Aragorn follows Prince Bilbo down the wide entrance tunnel and then through a series of twists and turns and staircases, until, even with a Ranger-trained sense of direction, Aragorn is quite lost. Prince Bilbo keeps up a steady stream of chatter, pointing down one hallway or another and describing its destination: the kitchens, the forges, the mines, the Throne Room, the library. Bofur trails along behind them, occasionally chipping in with bits of trivia about the mines or the people of Belegost.

Finally they reach the Royal Apartments, near the top of the mountain – or so Aragorn assumes, from the number of stairs they have climbed – and Bilbo shows him to a room at the end of the hall. Unlike most of the tunnels and rooms they have encountered, which are lit by tall lamps with mirrored brass behind them, the room has two tall windows looking out over the Shire, and the furniture is all sized for a Man, or perhaps an elf. Bilbo turns and gestures invitingly to the room. “This will be yours while you stay with us. I thought perhaps you might want to be able to see the sky; dwarves seem perfectly happy to never see the sun, but hobbits and Big Folk tend to like natural light, I’ve found.”

“It’s lovely.” Aragorn says honestly, and Prince Bilbo leaves him to get settled in.

That night he eats dinner with the Royal Family of Belegost. It’s a bit of a shock, really, for a person raised in the quiet halls of Rivendell. To begin with, there are so _many_ of them: King Thorin and Prince Bilbo at the head of the table, the formidable Lady Dis beside Bilbo, and then Fili and Mim and little Thrain between them, and Kili and a heavily pregnant Primrose, with Dwalin Kingsguard and Balin son of Fundin and Ori son of Korin to round out the table – and Aragorn, feeling rather ungainly tall, between Dwalin and King Thorin. Honestly he’s a little intimidated, with a huge tattooed dwarf on one side and a _king_ on the other and Lady Dis directly across the table from him, but Prince Bilbo leans around his husband to grin at Aragorn, and Fili reaches across the table to shake hands and apologize that young Thrain hasn’t any table manners as of yet.

The apology, to Aragorn’s abiding surprise, sets off a round of teasing: Kili claims that young Thrain gets his manners from his father, a clear insult, and sober sensible Balin laughs and adds that with mentors like _his_ brother around, it’s a wonder anyone eats neatly at all. Aragorn sits in shock as the banter goes around the table, with even stern Lady Dis and dour King Thorin joining in to throw playful insults at each other. Prince Bilbo just shakes his head and grins, and Aragorn concentrates on not choking on his – quite wonderful – dinner as Kili and Fili and Ori and _Primrose_ begin to sing a deeply strange song about breaking crockery, with young Thrain chiming in on the chorus and Lady Dis, of all people, conducting with broad sweeps of her hands.

In all, the dinner is loud and cheerful and boisterous, with delicious, hearty food quite unlike the delicately-spiced dishes of Lord Elrond’s table, and Aragorn, despite his shock, manages to enjoy himself thoroughly.

After dinner, Prince Bilbo and King Thorin draw Aragorn aside into a quieter room. “I thought we’d give you a bit of an outline,” Prince Bilbo says cheerfully. “We’ve never had a king-in-training before, but of course Fili is the heir, so we figure you can sit in on most of his lessons – the ones that aren’t in Khuzdul. He studies with Dis and Thorin and Balin most mornings. It would probably be good for you to observe the open court days and the days when Thorin sits in judgment, so that’s three afternoons a week. Thorin and I often talk over any political problems we anticipate or are dealing with after dinner, and you are welcome to sit in on those conversations; the rest of the time, you’re welcome to just wander around with Bofur and explore, or if you want to go over to the Shire, you are welcome to use Bag End, and Drogo, who is the current Thain of Baggins, would be glad to show you around.”

King Thorin puts a hand on Prince Bilbo’s shoulder and smiles at Aragorn a little. “Husband,” he says quietly, “I think you have given our guest rather a lot to think about.” Aragorn, who _has_ been feeling slightly overwhelmed, is suddenly much less afraid of the stern king of Belegost. Prince Bilbo flushes slightly.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry,” he tells Aragorn. “I do go on rather.” King Thorin laughs a little, and Aragorn smiles.

“It’s quite all right,” he assures his hosts. “I am here to learn, and I look forward to doing so.” His smile widens. “Already I have learnt that dwarves and elves act very differently at dinner!”

Prince Bilbo laughs. “Oh, my, yes!” He thinks a moment, then nods to himself. “Dwarves do not stand upon their dignity as elves do, you know; think of them as being a bit like Elladan and Elrohir on their most mischievous days, and you will be closer to it. Oh, I think Bofur will be a good companion for you, and I think I shall have to ask Bombur if he would invite you to dinner.” King Thorin gives Prince Bilbo a long and dubious look, and Prince Bilbo grins unrepentantly. “Well, if the eleven of us were a shock, then Bombur and Senna and Bofur and Columbine and Bifur and all of the children – I think there are ten now? – will be a bit of a surprise!”

“ _Ten_ children?” says Aragorn in faint awe.

“Well, only seven of them are actually Bombur’s,” Prince Bilbo replies cheerfully, and then, more gently, “We smaller folk are much more fertile than the elves, you know. It comes of being shorter-lived.”

Aragorn goes to bed that night with his mind spinning: Belegost is _nothing_ like Rivendell. Even just the last few hours have proven to him, better than Lord Elrond’s wise advice ever could, that mortals and elves are immensely, mind-bogglingly different…and that if he wants to rule a kingdom of Men, he would do well to learn how mortals think.

Also, this is probably going to be _so much fun_.


	3. Lessons

Aragorn does not precisely have _fun_ , standing as unobtrusively as possible behind the twin thrones of Belegost and watching King Thorin and Prince Bilbo deal with their subjects, but he does learn a lot. King Thorin makes decrees in fine regal style, directing the mining and forging, passing judgments when needed, and parsing the finer points of convoluted dwarven laws. Prince Bilbo deals more with the smaller things: the menu for the upcoming feasts, the small disputes between two families, the distribution of the produce and other provisions from the Shire. He is kind where King Thorin is brusque, and gentle where King Thorin is rough, but they work together well, and never contradict each other in public.

They let him watch their private conversations, too, Aragorn and Fili sitting side-by-side as King Thorin and Prince Bilbo and Balin and sometimes Dwalin and Ori and Lady Dis hammer out the details of troop rotations and trade caravans, dealing with the Thains of the Shire and the elves of Rivendell and the Dunedain of the North. Now and again they will disagree, though never heatedly; and Aragorn, who has never seen anyone speak against Lord Elrond’s decisions, begins to see how those decisions are made, in compromise and long discussion and careful parsing of each word and phrase.

He and Fili have lessons with Balin and Ori most mornings, going over the history of the dwarven kingdoms with a focus on the kings and their decisions: how Horngrumr the Wise laid out trade negotiations with the elves of the Greenwood despite their races’ hereditary dislike for each other, and how Nain I allied with the Men of Dale so that the people of Erebor might have a constant food supply and a convenient middleman for trading with elves, and how Dain of the Iron Hills held his people together in times of great trouble and brought them safely through a long trek and a great famine. Aragorn studies hard, and greatly enjoys the debates which Balin arranges between him and Fili about what a proper course of action in some hardship might be: who is in the right in a given mock trial, or what to do when a trade agreement is breached (always, of course, by the elves; Aragorn is unsettled and amused in equal measure by the animosity which most dwarves, Gimli excepted, seem to hold for the immortals). Fili is more conservative than Aragorn is, erring on the side of caution and patience, while Aragorn tends to wonder what would happen if he tried something completely new; and patient Balin helps them play out each scenario, their drawbacks and good points, until together they often come up with a solution as near to optimal as Balin is willing to grant.

But lessons in kingship are nothing new to Aragorn, though the small problems and petty feuds of the dwarves are new to him after the hard-earned calm of the ageless elves; it is Bofur who truly teaches him the most fascinating lessons he learns in Belegost. Bofur brings Aragorn to dinner with his family – Bombur and Senna and their seven children, Bofur and Columbine and their three, and terrifying Bifur whom all the children adore. The meal is merry chaos, with the youngest children romping about the room and babbling over each other, study Kes describing her training in the guard, Columbine laughing over the antics of her fellow weavers, and Bombur serving dish after dish of rich, delicious food. Not for nothing is Bombur Head of the Royal Kitchens, after all. He and his family eat late, after the royal family’s meal, and Aragorn finds himself exhausted after a mere few hours with them. He cannot imagine how Senna manages to ride herd on the whole crowd of children during the day, when Bombur and Bofur and Kes and Columbine and Bifur are all out at their various occupations. Senna, too, has her job outside the home – she is a midwife of great renown – but when she is called out, Bilum and Balum, her eldest sons still at home, sturdy sensible creatures as quiet and reliable as their father, watch their siblings for her.

Aragorn has never seen such a family, so large and loud and loving, so full of joy. Lord Elrond’s family love each other, of course, but Lady Arwen has been away in Lorien for longer than Aragorn has been alive, and Lady Celebrian went West more years ago than Aragorn cares to count, so it is only Lord Elrond and his twin sons who dined together with Gilraen and Aragorn most evenings, and even irrepressible Elladan and Elrohir are mannerly in their father’s presence.

When Aragorn has been in Belegost half the year, Prince Bilbo brings him to the Shire for the Harvest Fair, and there Aragorn learns many things. The most important, as far as he is concerned, is that hobbit moonshine is _lethal_ stuff. He wakes up the morning after the fair with a headache he would not wish on his worst enemy if he had one, and he knows full well he drank less than any of the hobbits who were encouraging him. It’s only mildly humiliating, though, since Gimli, who accompanied them, tells him that none of the dwarves of Belegost can deal with hobbit moonshine. After the Harvest Fair, Prince Bilbo meets with the Thains of the Shire, and Aragorn watches and learns about how much food so many people need, and how much can be produced by land as fertile as the Shire.

On the walk back to Bag End, Prince Bilbo points out a small herb growing in every garden along the way, and tells Aragorn solemnly, “That is not an herb the elves of Rivendell or the dwarves of Belegost would call benevolent, but among the hobbits of the Shire we love it well. It is a preventative, you see – a female hobbit who makes a tea of it, and drinks it morning and evening, will have no children during that time. Hobbits are a fertile people, but we understand well that there is only so much of the Shire, and if we should have more hobbits than there is food to feed them, we should all suffer for it. So hobbits have large families, this is very true; but never larger than our own lands can support, for even the most foolish hobbit knows that the Shire is a gift from Yavanna, and we must not squander it.” He pauses a moment, and then, slowly, adds, “Men are not so fertile as hobbits, I know, but more so than dwarves, and much more so than elves.”

Aragorn has never considered fertility in such a light before, and it is rather shocking for him. Among the elves of Rivendell, the merest chance of a child is a gift beyond price, half a miracle and half a divine blessing; to _prevent_ such a chance would be something close to blasphemy. But as he looks around the Shire and remembers the talk among the Thains, he thinks that the hobbit approach makes sense, for hobbits: there is, after all, only so much land, and only so many crops which can be raised upon it; and besides, the Shire must also support Belegost and its small horde of dwobbits. Dwarves, he has learned, eat rather less than hobbits – Ori, describing the recolonization of Belegost, has recounted the dwarves’ blank astonishment at Prince Bilbo’s customary seven meals a day – but dwobbits are hungry little things.

Someday, he knows, he will be king of a walled city and the vast lands it oversees, and now for the first time he realizes that Minas Tirith surely does not grow its own food: it must come from the plains of southern Gondor, and he would do well to learn of caravans and preservation. He pays more attention, after that, to the little gardens that many of Belegost’s hobbits keep on the foothills of the mountains, to the vast caverns of preserved grains and meats and produce – to the fact that there are fresh fruits and vegetables upon the royal table, but even the Head of the Kitchens usually has cooked greens on his family’s table unless Columbine’s little garden has borne fruit.

All of the elves of Rivendell eat as well as Lord Elrond; it is a shock to Aragorn when he realizes this prerogative of kings, and that, someday, it will be his as well. He is not sure he likes the thought: surely every citizen of Gondor is as worthy of good food, and plenty of it, as its king?


	4. Dale

Aragorn has been four years in Belegost when the messengers from Erebor arrive. He is not privy to the initial talks, since King Thorin thinks that representatives of conservative Erebor would react badly to a son of Men. Indeed, Aragorn is with Primrose and her sons while poor Prince Bilbo learns he must go adventuring again.

Aragorn has found a deep joy in helping Primrose with her children. He had never seen babies before he came to Belegost; the one child in Rivendell while he was there was well into its second century, and even then kept away in seclusion for its own safety. The day he was allowed to hold the infant Billin, a tiny squalling thing smaller than a cat and terrifyingly fragile, Aragorn decided that babies must be the greatest magic in the world. He sat as still as he could with Billin cradled in both hands, nearly paralyzed with the fear that he would drop the child, while Primrose laughed at him and Kili dithered; and since that day it has been one of Aragorn’s great pleasures to go up to Kili’s rooms and help Primrose first with little Billin and then with even littler Thollin. They are charming curly-haired little things with the Durin blue eyes, and Aragorn adores them wholeheartedly.

So Aragorn is as surprised as the rest of Belegost when Prince Bilbo announces his intentions to go to Erebor, and even more surprised (and excited) when Prince Bilbo decides that Aragorn can come along, to see Dale and learn how Men live. It is a wrench to leave Fili and Mim and young Thrain and Kili and Primrose and Billin and Thollin and Bombur and…oh, everyone; but the chance to see an entire city of Men is an irresistible lure, and at least Gimli and Kes and Bofur are coming, so Aragorn will have friends for the journey.

The first half of the journey is enlivened by Gimli’s pining for his elven prince, and Aragorn joins Kes and Bofur and Prince Bilbo and Lady Dis in teasing poor Gimli gently, out of earshot of the envoys from Erebor. (Bifur is probably teasing Gimli too, given how badly the young dwarf blushes, but Aragorn has not been invited to learn Khuzdul.) For all the teasing, they are all very pleased for Gimli when Prince Legolas decides to accompany them to Dale.

Bard of Dale is a sober and responsible man, and Aragorn likes him from the moment they meet. He has been a little worried – not that he’d say as much to Prince Bilbo – that Men will treat him oddly because of his high destiny; but Bard’s response to Prince Legolas’ introduction of Aragorn is a slow nod and a small smile, and the words, “Be welcome in my house. Any friend of Prince Legolas is surely a friend of mine.” Later, he draws Aragorn aside to his private parlor. “Prince Bilbo tells me you are here to learn of Men, who you will someday rule,” he says. “It is my honor to help you – and,” he smiles, “I think you will find we are not much like dwarves _or_ elves, though I’ve met too few hobbits to speak of them!”

Over the following months, Bard brings Aragorn with him as he governs his city, and Aragorn sees things he never has before, and finds he does not always like them. He likes the vast markets of the city, full of cloth and carpentry, fine leatherwork and finer metalwork, food and drink and trinkets of all description; but he is not so sure about the haggling which accompanies each sale. Dwarves know the worth of their work, and set a fair price; deliberate overcharging is as odd to him as wings on a pig. He is fascinated by the courts of Dale, with their many judges and squabbling lawyers, but the crimes and complains which come before them shock and appall him. Rape is unknown among elves and dwarves and hobbits, and so the first time he sees a rapist tried, he has to go and sit down with his head between his knees for a long time until Legolas comes and finds him. Divorce and adultery baffle him: elves and dwarves, after all, marry for life and never stray, and hobbits, though they have the concept of divorce, use it so sparingly that Aragorn has never encountered it. The first case of child abuse he sees sends him so near to a berserk rage that Bard bans him from watching any similar cases, and Legolas brings him out of the city and spars with him for hours until Aragorn is too exhausted even to move.

(It is not, strictly speaking, true that dwarves and hobbits are free of all such flaws, but Aragorn has been lucky in his encounters. The dwarves of Belegost are, for the most part, fine people – Thorin would hardly have kept them if they were not. There are those in Erebor who are as cruel to their spouses and children as the Men of Dale, but Aragorn is, of course, hardly welcome in Erebor. And there are those hobbits, now and again, who mistreat those they should give care to; but always the Thains of the Shire are watching, numbering off their multitudinous relatives and labyrinthine family trees, taking care that no one slips through the cracks. It is very hard to hide anything in the Shire. And though Aragorn has read much of the history of the elves, it must be admitted that the texts he was given were perhaps slightly more concerned with being kind to their writers’ patrons than with being what might be called objectively true.)

In other ways, though, Dale is a revelation and a pleasure. Bard is kind and gruff and very knowledgeable about the history of Men, and Aragorn spends many evenings sitting in the older man’s parlor with Bard and Bard’s three children, talking about the day’s experiences and learning the legends and history of Dale. Bard’s children are cheerful and clever, but Aragorn has little to do with them: fifteen-year-old Marjie is already a skilled weaver, and spends her days at her apprenticeship, while eleven-year-old Jesia and eight-year-old Girion are still in the schoolroom. Girion, who will someday be Lord of Dale, is as solemn and conscientious as a child can be, and Aragorn sees rather a lot of himself in the serious boy, but Girion is shy of his father’s noble visitors and Aragorn does not care to impose upon the child.

They get news piecemeal from Erebor, reports from traders and from lovestruck Gimli, and so Aragorn and Bard do not hear of the destruction of the Arkenstone and its malignant spirit until several days after the fact. Aragorn is rather disappointed that he did not get to see Prince Bilbo destroy the dragon spirit: Aragorn has always wanted a real adventure, and watching Prince Bilbo save Erebor would have been almost as good. But the good news is that they will be staying over the winter, and so Aragorn looks forward to months following Bard through his small kingdom, observing the day-to-day life of a city of Men.

It is in Dale that Aragorn learns what flirting looks like among Men. Dwarves, of course, flirt by giving each other handmade and costly gifts, and sometimes by writing letters, as Gimli did with Legolas. Aragorn is quite surprised when, following a long conversation with a young woman who seems absurdly interested in his meager adventures, Bard pulls him aside and informs him that she was flirting with him. It seems preposterous: Aragorn has not yet become a great hero or a king, he holds no land and has no trade, he can make no fine artifacts of metal or wood or stone, so what is there in him to attract a mate?

Bard laughs for a long time when Aragorn tells him this, and informs Aragorn that he is handsome and polite and well-bred, and that is often quite enough for a woman of Men. Aragorn goes off and thinks about that by himself a while, and talks it over with Legolas when the elven prince is not distracted by Gimli’s presence. Legolas merely shrugs in bafflement.

“Elves love the person, not the face or form,” he says mildly. “My love for Gimli was forged in the fires of our Quest, for that he is brave and loyal and generous of heart and can see beauty even in the darkest of times. I know, too, that dwarves admire great craftsmanship or skill in battle, honor and loyalty and the stubbornness of stone.” He shrugs again. “Men are not as elves or dwarves. They can love lightly, which we cannot, and can survive a broken heart, which has killed elves ere now. I do not pretend to understand them.”

If nothing else, the vagaries of human love give Aragorn something to think about on long winter evenings sitting in Bard’s parlor watching the world go by; but he has come to no conclusions by the end of the winter, and is glad enough to hear that King Frerin and Kes are to be wed, and Prince Bilbo’s party to return to Belegost at last.


	5. The Sword Reforged

In June, Gilraen comes to Belegost, as she has not in several years, and is received with great rejoicing by Prince Bilbo and by her son. She comes with news: Narsil has been re-forged at Elrond’s word, and if Aragorn is ready, it is time for him to take up his sword and his destiny and go out into the world.

Prince Bilbo smiles when he hears the news. “He is ready,” he assures Gilraen. “Balin gives glowing reports of his education and skill in debate and problem-solving, though alas I do not think that Aragorn has mastered mining.” They all laugh: Aragorn cannot fit into most of the tunnels below Belegost, since they are built for dwarven frames and Aragorn is a tall man. Prince Bilbo continues, “Dwalin likewise commends his swordwork and his skill with bow and dagger, which skills I think we must lay at your feet, Gilraen; he could hardly have had a better teacher.” It is quite true that Gilraen was Aragorn’s first weaponsmaster, though Glorfindel and Dwalin have both put their finishing touches on her work.

“I find him good-natured, thoughtful, devoted to justice and to the safety of those around him, generous and kindly towards children, polite in all situations, intelligent, and competent in woodscraft and horsemanship. I do not say that he is yet a king,” Prince Bilbo smiles up at Aragorn, “but he has the makings of a fine one, and I have no qualms about sending him to Gondor’s throne.”

Aragorn blushes a fiery red at the praise, and Gilraen beams. “Well done,” she tells her son, and Aragorn knows he will go through fire and flood to keep her pride and approval.  
They leave the next day, mother and son on matching horses, and the entire royal family of Belegost, as well as Bofur and Bombur and all their kin, turn out to see them off. 

Aragorn waves until he cannot see them anymore, grinning and blinking away tears, and only turns to guide his horse down the trail when it becomes absolutely necessary. His mother smiles at him. “It is always hard to leave friends,” she tells him softly, “but you can always visit, and write to them. I know they will be glad to hear from you.”

“I will do so,” Aragorn vows. “They have been nothing but good to me.”

*

Narsil shines like a star, a sword fit for a king, and Aragorn is honestly a little nervous as he unsheathes it for the first time: what if he is _not_ the true heir of Gondor? Will the sword twist from his hand? But instead the hilt settles into his palm as if made for him – as, he realizes, it probably was – and the sword feels like an extension of his arm and will, perfectly balanced and weighted, beautiful and deadly. Holding it, Aragorn feels, for the very first time, as though he is meant to be someone amazing, a man worth following and a king worth obedience. It is a heady feeling, yet also humbling: somehow, he must become worthy of the sword he holds. Quietly, Aragorn makes a promise to the blade in his hands: he will never use it for an ignoble purpose, never defile its gleaming edges with the blood of the innocent, never forget that he is Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen of the line of Isildur, born to make Gondor’s throne glorious again.

*

Lady Arwen finds him in the gardens. Aragorn is admiring the flowers – something Belegost is sadly lacking, though the weavings and metalwork adorning the walls nearly make up for it. Still, it’s nice to see flowers, and something tells Aragorn that the ageless peace of Rivendell will be in short supply out in the world.

He’s good enough at paying attention to his surroundings, thanks to Glorfindel and his mother, that he knows Lady Arwen is there, but he’s still surprised when she sits down next to him, graceful and beautiful and untouchable as dawn. Aragorn jumps a little and tries to rise, to bow to her or leave her the bench, and she laughs a little and puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him seated.

“A good day to you,” Aragorn manages to croak. She smiles.

“And to you, Aragorn son of Gilraen. I would ask a boon of you.”

Aragorn gapes; he can’t help it. What can _he_ do for the Lady Arwen? “Ask it,” he says faintly, “and if it is in my power, Lady Arwen, I shall do it.”

She laughs again. “I wish to see somewhat of the lands of Men,” she tells him, “when they are not under attack. I would travel with you, of your courtesy, into Rohan and Gondor, and see the world.”

Aragorn gathers his wits and tries to act like the grown man he is, not a witless stripling. “Lady Arwen, I would be honored to have your company on my travels.”

She nods. “Then I shall see you tomorrow at dawn,” she replies; Aragorn doesn’t bother asking how she knew when he was planning to leave. She rises to go, then turns back with an impish smile. “And you might as well just call me Arwen – we’ll be spending a lot of time together, after all!”

She is gone before Aragorn can gather his thoughts or stammer out a reply, and he sits for some time in a daze, staring sightlessly out over the flowerbeds. The Lady Arwen, traveling with him for who knows how long; surely this is a dream? But even in his daydreams, he has never dared to go so far. A smile, a kind word, perhaps a sign of admiration if Aragorn had done something particularly noteworthy – killed a Balrog, stopped a war – but never something this wonderful.

He sits there until his mother comes out to find him for dinner. Gilraen sees the stunned look on his face and begins laughing. “Arwen asked to accompany you, didn’t she?”

“You knew?”

“I knew she wanted to.” Gilraen pulls him to his feet. “She just had to get Lord Elrond to agree; he must have given in this morning.” Aragorn falls in beside her as they walk back   
to the house. As they reach the doorway Gilraen stops and turns to face him. “A word of advice, my son.”

Aragorn meets her eyes solemnly. “Do not place Arwen on a pedestal,” Gilraen tells him. “She is a woman, perhaps not a woman of Men but still a woman, and only as wise and as foolish as her experiences have made her. By all means work to be worthy of her, but do not make her out to be a goddess. Learn who she really is. No woman likes to be treated as something she is not.”

“I will,” Aragorn promises, and they go in to dinner.


	6. Boromir

Findulias is terrified. Since the day she missed her monthlies and told her husband the good news, he has been convinced, without doubt or fret, that the child will be a boy, a son and heir for him, someone to take the Stewardship which was denied to Denethor, or – perhaps! – even the throne itself. And Findulias knows as well as any woman that there is no way, no way at all, to guarantee a son.

It is her nursemaid, old faithful Parsha, who comes up with the plan. Parsha, too, is scared of Denethor, of his sudden rages and his unpredictable mood swings, of the way he is so very fixated on the idea of a son. They have little enough support from Findulias’ family – the dower house, separate from the main building, was given over to Denethor and Findulias when Denethor was disowned, and though Adrahil provides monies for their food and clothing, and pays the few servants who have agreed to stay on, Findulias and Denethor are not welcome in the main house, and most of her family seems to feel that since Findulias chose to marry a traitor – albeit before his treason was revealed – well, she has made her bed, and she must lie in it.

So there is no one there but Parsha when Findulias goes to her birthing-bed; even Denethor has been banned from this bastion of femininity. The labor is long and Findulias is weary beyond words by the time the child’s first cry breaks the air, but she clings to wakefulness as Parsha cleans the babe and wraps it snugly in a cloth and places it against her chest.

“Is it…?” She cannot even voice her hopes and fears.

Parsha shakes her head sadly. “You have a daughter, my lady,” she murmurs. Findulias closes her eyes in a moment of despair.

“Then…as you have planned, Parsha. Do it.”

Parsha nods, and tucks the child more closely against its mother’s breast, then goes to the door. Denethor has been pacing outside for hours, growing more nervous with every cry and every ominous silence. Parsha bows to him.

“My lord, you have a son!”

Denethor bursts eagerly into the room, hurrying to the bed to kiss his wife and marvel at his newborn son and heir. “Boromir,” he proclaims. “His name is Boromir. Look how strong he is already!”

Indeed, the child is sucking strongly, eyes closed and tiny hands in tight fists. Findulias carefully does not sigh with relief. Parsha tugs gently at the curtains around the bed. “Your wife and son need sleep, my lord,” she says, chivvying Denethor carefully out of the room. Findulias does not relax until he is gone.

Only then does she look down at the soft head on her chest and smile a little. “It’s a hard road I’ve given you to walk, little one, and I am sorry for it,” she whispers. The sleeping child does not reply.

*

Boromir knows, by the time he is two, that he must never be naked around anyone but Mother and Parsha, and especially not Father. This is not hard, because Father does not see him often: Findulias insisted that a child’s first years, until the age of at least five, should be with its mother, and Denethor, having extracted a promise that Boromir would be given over to him as he aged, acquiesced. Boromir mostly sees his father at bedtime, when Denethor comes in to Boromir’s little room and kisses his forehead and tells him to grow up to be a fine strong boy.

Findulias would be more worried that Denethor spends so little time with Boromir except that she is so relieved. By the time Boromir goes to his father for training – in weaponswork and reading and writing, politics and history – the child will know never to be unclothed around Denethor, and with luck, which has been in such short supply, Denethor will never discover the deception. Findulias does not like to think of what might happen if he did.

Still, for all the fear of discovery, Boromir is a lovely child, quiet and clever and patient even now. Parsha dotes on her young charge, and the housemaids and the cook adore him, giving him sweets and covering up his small errors to protect him from his father’s wrath. And Boromir is an active, energetic child; if Findulias did not know better, she would assume that her firstborn was a son in flesh as well as fiat. She is grateful, if a little sad that she will never know the daughter her firstborn could have been. Perhaps, when Boromir is old enough to understand and all has been explained, she will be able to steal a few hours with her daughter; for now, Findulias must content herself with a son.

It is not hard, actually; that is the most surprising part of this whole mad plan. Boromir is a charming child, so eager to please that it’s sometimes scary, loving and kind. The day Findulias finds him lying quietly on the kitchen floor, gazing intently at the cat who has just kittened in the corner of the hearth, and Boromir solemnly puts a finger to his lips and whispers – loudly – “Don’t scare the kitties, Mommy,” Findulias thinks she might cry of joy. What better child could she have asked for?

Boromir is two when Findulias’ monthlies cease again, and as she waxes larger with the moons, she teaches her son that his little sibling, boy or girl though it may be, will be someone to be cherished and protected. “You’ll be their big brother,” she tells a solemn Boromir with his hand on her swollen stomach. “You’ll have to show them how to grow up.”

“I’ll be the _best_ big brother,” Boromir promises, and Findulias gathers him into her arms and buries her face in his dark hair.

“You will,” she assures him as he hugs back. “You’ll be the best big brother ever, my precious child.” Boromir giggles and kisses her cheek.

Boromir seems fascinated by her changing body, by the occasional movements of the child within her. He sits at her feet as she sews, playing with his toys and narrating his every movement to his unborn sibling. Findulias doesn’t mind; the child within her actually seems to settle down when Boromir is talking to it, and Boromir’s little wooden soldiers and animals have surprisingly inventive adventures for a two-year-old’s toys.

Boromir is a little scared when his mother begins to make noises of pain and calls for Parsha, three days before his third birthday, but Findulias takes a moment to kiss her firstborn gently on his forehead. “Be patient and quiet, my good boy,” she tells him. “Soon you will have a little brother or sister.” Boromir nods solemnly, and takes up his post with his father outside the birthing room, watching the door anxiously. Denethor kneels down and puts a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Do you know what is happening, my boy?”

Boromir nods, smiling up into his father’s face. “Soon I will have a little brother or sister to look after,” he tells Denethor. Denethor smiles back.

“I am sure you will do a fine job of it,” he replies, and they wait together for Parsha’s news. It is the last time Boromir will see his father smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important Note: I am not writing Boromir as a trans* character. I do not have the knowledge or experience to do so without offending somebody. Boromir is a tomboy being raised as a boy, in a culture with strictly defined gender roles. Please do tell me if I make some grievously offensive error.


	7. South of the White Mountains

Gilraen sees Aragorn and Arwen off in the morning, embracing both of them farewell and standing on the walls overlooking the road until they are out of sight. Aragorn promises to write as often as he can and to be careful – there are still orcs in the White Mountains, by all reports, and there are human robbers too. Still, there are few threats within a day’s ride of Rivendell – the Dunedain would hardly stand for it – and the ride is pleasant.

When they break for lunch, Arwen looks up from her sausage pastry and says, “I think I should take another name.”

Aragorn considers this as he chews. Finally he nods. “From what Mother tells me, the Lady Arwen of the Healing Hands is well known in the lands of Men; if we wish to pass unnoticed, it might indeed be best for both of us to take on other names.”

Arwen considers for a while, then smiles. “Call me Meren,” she offers. “It is a fine name.” Aragorn smiles broadly; it means _joy_. A fitting name.

“I shall go by Strider,” he decides. It is a traditional name for Dunedain who do not wish to reveal their true identities; Gilraen has told him that his own father Arathorn used it on his travels. It is not as though anyone will know the name ‘Aragorn,’ but he cannot help liking the small subterfuge. It feels like part of a real adventure.

*

They travel down through Dunland and the Enedwaith, avoiding the Gap of Rohan for now, and take the pass through the White Mountains which leads to the headwaters of the River Lefnui. The plains of the Enedwaith are not very exciting: few people live there, and the ones who do are not friendly to strangers. The ferryman who takes them across the Isen is so taciturn as to seem mute, and Aragorn is quite sure that ten silver pieces is, if not highway robbery, at least overcharging the foreigners.

On the other hand, the uneventful days of travel give Aragorn and Arwen time to settle into their routines. Aragorn is a slightly better hunter, and Arwen better at identifying tasty plants, but they share the cooking equally, and take the night watches in shifts. Aragorn is in good shape, but he’s not used to constant travel, and sleeps deeply during his turn; Arwen, after all, is perfectly capable of defending them. Aragorn remembers his mother’s tales of how Arwen stood watch many nights for the Fellowship, wakeful and keen-eyed under the stars.

During the day, though they keep their eyes open for any attack, however unlikely that may be, Arwen coaxes tales of Belegost out of Aragorn. She has only been there the once, after all, for the great feast after the Ring was destroyed, and then she saw little but the great dining hall and the guest rooms. Aragorn cannot help enjoying being the one to know a little more, for once; it is a bit intimidating, after all, to be accompanying a woman who has had more than a thousand years to learn anything she pleased.

He tells her tales of Prince Bilbo and King Thorin, how they are stern and self-assured in public, never contradicting each other where their people can hear, but dote upon each other in private, and sometimes have arguments over dinner. He tells her about Primrose and her sons, their tiny size and warmth in his hands, their squalling and laughter. He tells her about Bombur and Bofur and their families, ten children’s worth of chaos and confusion, about Kes’ unexpected appointment to Prince Bilbo’s bodyguard and the marvelous opportunities that brought her. He laughs with her over Legolas and Gimli, whose pining was rather more obvious than Gimli would have liked. Arwen remembers their first tentative steps towards friendship, and tells him about their laughter even in the midst of darkness, about Legolas’ battle with the Spider in her dark tunnels, and Gimli’s staunch loyalty to his prince even in the heart of Mordor itself.

And somehow, amid the laughter and the tales and the sleeping beneath each other’s watchful eyes, Aragorn and Arwen find a friendship waiting for them as though it was always meant to be.

*

They cross the pass into southern Gondor in a storm. It has been raining for more than a week, and though they tried to camp through it, their supplies are running low enough that eventually they decide it will be better to simply press on despite the rain. Climbing a mountain pass, even a low one, in pouring rain and wind is not an experience Aragorn cares to repeat, honestly; he is soaked to the bone and freezing despite the late summer warmth, and every gust of wind seems to cut right through his oiled cloak and all his layers of clothing to trail cold fingers down his spine. His patient horse hangs its head in misery behind him as he leads it carefully up the trail, and even the blankets over its back cannot protect it from the weather.

The clouds break for a moment as they reach the top of the pass, and Aragorn looks out over the land which will someday be his for the first time. Broad fields spread out before him, flanking the Lefnui, a patchwork of every shade of green imaginable, broken by patches of trees and little clusters of thatched-roof houses here and there. It is startlingly beautiful. Beside Aragorn, Arwen draws in her breath sharply, and Aragorn thinks she will remark on the lovely sight; but she does not. Instead, she points to one side, where the river Lefnui begins in a small lake and its attendant waterfall.

The lake is swollen from the heavy rains, waters dark and angry, and near the gap where the waters fall away into the river, a tree has been uprooted and lies in the water, blocking the flow. As Aragorn watches, the tree creaks and shifts, and shifts again, and he follows Arwen’s gaze down the pass and along the river, where the waters of the lake will fall if they can pass the tree, and goes white.

There is a town, just at the base of the pass where the Lefnui curves, nestled against the river like a child in its mother’s arms. Even now, the river is over its banks from the storm’s rain, and the water is licking at the fence surrounding the town. Aragorn may never have seen a flood before, but he is clever enough to understand: when the tree goes, all the waters pent within the lake will rush down, faster than a horse can run, and the little village is in terrible danger.

He takes a deep breath. “We must warn them.”

Arwen nods agreement. “Yes – but we will do them little good with foundered horse and twisted ankles. We must go swiftly, but with care.”

They are halfway down from the top of the pass, peering through the drizzle, when there is a terrible creaking snap from the lake, and Arwen turns to stare. “The tree breaks,” she cries, and then all words are lost in the roar of water.


	8. East Bank

Aragorn and Arwen are well out of the path of the rushing water, but they watch in horror as the river breaks its banks and pours itself down toward the little town. Aragorn’s hand tightens on the reins of his patient horse, and it whickers and lips at his shoulder in confusion. Arwen presses one pale hand to her mouth as they see mud-brick houses begin to collapse, their inhabitants fleeing desperately away from the oncoming water.

As the flood ebbs and it becomes possible to speak without screaming, Aragorn takes a single deep breath and swings up onto his patient mount. “We need to be down there,” he says tightly, and Arwen springs onto her own horse in a single fluid movement, nodding once and nudging the horse forward.

They reach the village – or what’s left of it – inside the hour. Most of the buildings have crumbled, and the ground is a morass of mud and debris; they leave the horses tied to a couple of trees and finish the approach on foot. Aragorn goes at once to a woman who is digging frantically in the muck, while Arwen hurries towards the little huddle of survivors, packs of healing supplies in her hands.

Aragorn helps the woman dig her husband the rest of the way out of the debris and carry him to Arwen, and goes back into the wreckage of the village again and again. Some of the people he finds are alive, if badly injured. Some are not. He sees a man sink down speechless in grief, a woman raise a howling keen which makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up in sympathetic horror. He sees, for the first time, those dead of injuries, not old age. He finds a dead child, and cannot even bear to look down at his burden as he carries her to the makeshift morgue.

When there is no one and nothing left to unearth in the village, he joins Arwen and the remaining villagers in a field set well back from the river. Arwen has apparently earned their undying devotion with her skill in healing: Aragorn can see her handiwork everywhere, in neatly splinted arms and tightly bandaged heads. They have gotten a fire going, and there is a battered pot over it – Aragorn thinks it is full of boiling water, which makes sense, since Arwen would have insisted on having clean water to wash wounds. Aragorn goes over to their packs and digs out their little cooking pot and the pouch of tea leaves. Hot tea often makes everything more bearable.

They sleep that night – in shifts, as always – beside the villagers ranged around the fire, and Aragorn paces around them for his watch, glaring often upstream as if to dare the waters to come again, as if there would be anything he could do if they did. In the morning, the villagers begin to pull themselves together. Some of them begin to dig a grave for their fallen relatives; others scavenge through the wreckage for anything useful which can be salvaged. Aragorn goes hunting, and returns with a deer and several rabbits, which will make a fine stew, enough for all of them. It feels like the least he can do.

During dinner, he sits beside the headman of the village, a man no older than Bard but gnarled with hard work and bent with sorrow, who gives his name as Berthold. His daughter is dead, and his grandsons sit quietly on either side of him, leaning against his shoulders wearily. Aragorn has no idea what to say, what condolences to offer. Finally he gestures towards his horse. The village has no riding animals, and few enough draft animals. “Is there anyone I could go to for help?” he asks Berthold. “Your neighbors, or your lord, who could send you food and aid?”

Berthold laughs, but it is not a happy sound. “Our neighbors are as poor as we,” he says, “and our lord has little care for us so long as the tithes are timely and full.”

Aragorn blinks in surprise. “But surely after such a disaster, your lord cannot expect you to tithe, not the full amount…”

Berthold gives Aragorn a long look. “The lords you know are kinder than ours,” he says at last, and Aragorn thinks of the Thains of the Shire and their plump, happy people; of Thorin and Bilbo and their halls full of laughing dwobbits. “Our lord does not care. He lives in Minas Tirith, after all – it must be a very great city indeed – and what is the plight of one small village to a lord in Minas Tirith?”

Aragorn is appalled. It is the duty of a lord to care for his people; it is in return for that care that his people supply him with all he needs. The people on the land are busy with the endless cycle of harvest and planting, and it is the purpose of the lord to plan for bad years, to observe the outside world, to ward his people against danger from without and from within. But these people – _his_ people, his Gondorian subjects-to-be – clearly expect no such thing from their lords, and that…well. That is utterly _wrong_ , an affront to everything which Lord Elrond and Prince Bilbo and King Thorin and King Bard and Balin and his mother have ever taught him.

But surely Berthold knows his own lord better than Aragorn could, and so Aragorn sits quietly through the rest of dinner, stewing quietly in his own frustration at the horrible situation.

There is little enough he and Arwen can do, since neither of them has any skill in farming, but what they can, they do: Aragorn hunts every day, going up into the mountains and bringing back food for the communal pot, and in the afternoons he does his best to learn how to build houses, though he is a clumsy carpenter at best. Arwen tends to all the wounded, and takes care of the children so that their parents can work in the fields or in the rebuilding of the village; and under her tutelage, the children begin to learn the basics of reading and writing, as well as what wild plants are useful and how to care for injuries and illness.

(Arwen tells Aragorn, privately, that none of the children have ever been taught to read or write before, and that even Berthold can barely scribe his name. Aragorn is quietly furious. The language of Numenor is every Gondorian’s right and privilege. He swears that when he is king – when he is king, things will change. It will be hard, he is sure, since apparently the Gondorian nobility has forgotten how this is supposed to work, but Aragorn is stubborn. He will make things better, for Berthold and everyone like him.)

Aragorn and Arwen stay a month, and by the time they leave the village, it’s looking much better. The villagers are still in mourning for their dead, of course, but there are enough houses to shelter everyone, and enough smoked and dried meat to keep bellies full, and the children know enough to hunt for sweet berries and savory herbs in the woods nearest the fields. It is the most Aragorn and Arwen can do, and they know full well that if they should stay longer, their needs – and their horses’ needs – would begin to be a burden on the already-burdened villagers. So they take their leave, with many thanks from Berthold, and head east and south into the plains of Gondor.

Two days’ journey out, Aragorn turns to Arwen as they begin to make camp for the night and says, softly, “That is not the worst thing we will see, is it?”

Arwen shakes her head. “My friend, I fear not,” she replies. “I do not think that Minas Tirith has been kind to those outside its walls.”


	9. Long Wood

The whole town heard them agree that the next stranger to enter the village would be asked to finally, _finally_ settle their long dispute; but equally, everyone knows that Merchant Olvor was hoping for a caravan of merchants, who would of course side with him, and Mayor Gillen was hoping for a bard or a traveling scribe, who would be just as likely to side with him. The cloaked pair on their weary horses do not look like merchants or scribes.

Mayor Gillen sneers, “You want me to ask _that_ scruffy nobody to settle this?”

Olvor glares at him. “And now you’ll go back on your sworn word, like the oathbreaker you are?”

It is Mayor Gillen’s daughter Finla who breaks the stalemate, running forward to grasp at the bridle of Aragorn’s horse. “Please, sir, a boon!”

Aragorn smiles down at her. He has his hood up, to make it less obvious that it is Arwen who is hiding her face – elves are not common in the south – but the gleam of his teeth is clear enough. “Ask it,” he replies, “and I will grant it if I may.”

“We need a judgment,” she explains, “and everyone in town has already taken sides.”

“I will be glad to make a fair judgment,” Aragorn promises. “Let me find room and stabling for myself and my companion, and then I shall be at your service.”

The Mayor and Olvor hurry to offer to pay for their rooms, their meals, is there anything we can do for you sir and…er…ma’am, but Aragorn and Arwen laugh and turn them down and pay for everything themselves. Only once they have eaten do they invite the Mayor and Olvor and their children to sit down and explain the situation.

The Mayor and Olvor, of course, immediately start talking over each other, which devolves quickly into swearing at each other. Aragorn glances at Arwen and she shakes her head a little, clearly amused at the foolishness of Men. Aragorn lets the shouting match go on a little longer, then slaps his hand down resoundingly on the table. Silence descends.

“Very well, since you clearly cannot tell me what is going on, this young lady may tell me the tale.” He points at Finla, who blushes but sits straighter.

“Ah, well, it’s like this, sir. Thirty, thirty-five years ago now, the records room had a fire, and pretty much everything burned.” Arwen winces: no elf likes to hear of writing destroyed. “And then Father – Mayor Gillen – and Merchant Olvor couldn’t agree on who actually owned the acreage between Farmer Sill’s land and Farmer Issen’s land. Everyone knows that either Father or Merchant Olvor owns it, but no one knows who.”

Aragorn nods. “I see. And is there more?”

Finla glances down the table at one of the young men sitting past Merchant Olvor. “Well, sir, Borin and I fell in love a year ago, and we would like to wed. But our fathers say we may not, because this _foolish_ debate is so important to them!” She is furious suddenly, eyes flashing and head high, and Aragorn sees steel under her blushing and nervous behavior.

He turns to Borin, who nods solemnly. “All is as she says it, sir,” he confirms. “The feud’s been simmering longer than we’ve been alive, but it really caught fire when we asked for permission to marry. They’ve been at each other hammer-and-tongs ever since, and finally the rest of the town got full fed up and demanded they find a solution.”

“Which is why I am here,” Aragorn agrees, and frowns. “Well. Have you anything to add, Mayor Gillen, Merchant Olvor? Any evidence one way or the other?”

They glower at each other, but shake their heads angrily. Aragorn nods. “Then I shall take the evening to think on your disagreement, and in the morning I will pass judgment.”

They do not like it, but they go away grudgingly, Finla and Borin trailing after their fathers and sending longing looks at each other. Aragorn turns to look at Arwen, who has an unreadable expression. Aragorn grimaces, and asks the innkeeper for dinner in their room.

Once they are in private, Arwen’s blank expression breaks into gasps of disbelieving laughter. “How can they _forget_ who owned the land?” she giggles. “Surely that is the sort of thing which even Men remember?”

Aragorn shakes his head. “I think…I think perhaps they do remember, but one or the other took the opportunity when the records burned to…acquire a little more property.”

Arwen sobers quickly. “That is a very different problem. One which would never arise among the elves – or not that I have ever seen. I have no advice for you, my friend; it would seem wrong to give to either, not knowing which is honest.”

Aragorn nods slowly. “You speak truth, but I think I have an idea…”

*

The next morning, Mayor Gillen and Merchant Olvor and their children and wives arrive early, practically bristling with eagerness. Only Finla and Borin seem subdued: clearly, they think that whatever the outcome today, it will not lead to their marriage. Aragorn is going to be delighted to prove them wrong. Behind the plaintiffs, most of the rest of the town has turned out: clearly this is the best entertainment in _years_.

“I have decided,” Aragorn says when everyone has settled down, “that it is clear that neither of you would accept a judgment which would favor the other. Is this so?” The crowd mutters in agreement, and Gilland and Olvor glare at each other. Aragorn notices their wives giving each other sympathetic looks, and feels more confident about his decision.

“Therefore, I have decided that the land does not belong to either of you.” Gillen and Olvor whirl from glaring at each other and level furious stares at Aragorn, who smothers a smile. “Finla, Borin, come forward.”

The lovers come forward nervously, glancing at each other and at Aragorn and back at their parents. Aragorn takes their hands and clasps them together. “My decision is that Finla and Borin own the land _jointly_ , for themselves and their heirs, and that therefore the only proper thing to do is to marry them at once!”

The cheers of the townsfolk pretty much drown out the shouted objections from Gillen and Olvor, and Finla and Borin are grinning at each other and Finla’s eyes are bright with happy tears. Aragorn suppresses a grin and tries to look suitably judicial, but it’s hard, especially when Arwen, behind him, murmurs, “Well done, my friend. Well done indeed.”

They have to stay for the wedding, of course.


	10. The Lay of Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer

Finla and Borin are married five days after Aragorn’s judgment – apparently their mothers wish to take no chances, and the five days are a marvel of controlled chaos as food and flowers and clothing are prepared. Aragorn does his level best to stay out of the way: what does he know of weddings? Arwen, curious, goes to help, and with her long hair hiding her ears and a quiet disposition, she learns quite a lot.

Aragorn and Arwen stay one more day after the wedding – the celebration ran late into the night, and though human ale is no match for hobbit moonshine, Aragorn is glad to sleep in the next morning. That evening, a bard comes through the town, and Aragorn and Arwen take their dinner in the main room of the inn to see what human bards are like.

The first part of the evening is enjoyable enough, with the bard playing drinking songs (not nearly as bawdy as the ones the dwarves taught Aragorn, but still amusing) and simple instrumental pieces on an old but well-cared-for lute. Then, as people finish eating and begin to relax with their mugs of ale, the bard strikes a tune which makes most of the townsfolk begin to cheer. “I will now play,” he announces, over the cheering, “the _Lay of Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer_!”

Aragorn’s jaw drops. Beside him, Arwen makes a small sound of astonishment. Aragorn has heard the _Saga of Bilbo Ring-Bearer_ , of course, though only in translation: once Ori finished the Khuzdul version, he helpfully re-created it in Common, which Aragorn is grateful for. Certainly the _Saga_ treats Gilraen with great respect and names her a great hero, but the focus is definitely on Bilbo, Dis, and Gimli, with Arwen and Legolas in joint second place (they are elves, after all, in a dwarvish saga). It makes sense, he realizes, that the people of Gondor revere Gilraen and Kili and Primrose more highly: the destruction of the Ring was far away and not much talked of, but the Nazgul and the orcs came right up to the walls of Minas Tirith.

It’s not a bad song, actually, and the facts are there, though Gilraen is given so many extra epithets, and so many heroic feats are attributed to her, that Aragorn has trouble keeping a straight face. The others of the Fellowship are mentioned only briefly – Arwen of the Healing Hands smiles and hides her face when she is named, but no one notices – and most of the song deals with the heroic speeches Gilraen is said to have given during the battle. Aragorn, who has the story straight from his mother’s mouth, and knows her well, is quite sure she made no such speeches. He resolves that he must find some way for her to hear the _Lay_ : it will amuse her no end.

As the bard finishes his song, Arwen leans over. “Traveling with a bard would give us some perspective on this land,” she suggests quietly. Aragorn nods.

“He’ll know the good routes, and where the villages are,” he agrees, and stands to speak with the man. Scant minutes later, the bard has agreed happily to new traveling companions.

*

The bard’s name is Curran, and he accepts Meren and Strider as fellow travelers with hardly a hitch. As far as Aragorn can tell, the other man assumes that they’re minor nobility out of Minas Tirith or Rohan, wanting to see the world; since Arwen keeps her hood up, the subterfuge works well enough. Though Aragorn _would_ like to see Curran’s reaction to discovering that one of his companions is Arwen of the Healing Hands. Still, that would cause more problems than the amusement would be worth.

Curran likes to talk; it’s practically a job requirement for a bard, after all. Aragorn is perfectly willing to ask leading questions and ride quietly beside the bard as he natters on. It’s very educational, actually. Curran seems to know everything about the western end of Gondor, rides circuit through it endlessly, and he talks to everyone. Aragorn makes a mental note: bards are a useful source of information.

Taxes are going up, Curran tells him, because old Ecthelion is beginning to lose his grip on the major landholders. There’s a growing bandit problem, especially down in Andrast, the farthest point from Minas Tirith, where the tight-stretched guard force rarely goes. Banditry is easier than farming, Curran laughs, but Aragorn has a hard time imagining preying upon other Men. Orcs, he is accustomed to fearing and hating, but how can one Man turn upon another; why rob farmers and townsfolk who have only enough to tithe and feed themselves? Arwen, too, is baffled.

They follow Curran’s accustomed path south into Anfalas, skirting past the Pinnath Gellin mountains, stopping at every town and village along the way. Curran is a talented bard, though he tells Aragorn that there are many more skilled musicians in the eastern half of Gondor, closer to the wealth and patronage of Minas Tirith. Arwen expresses interest in the lute, and Curran tutors her as they ride, their patient horses flicking their ears back now and then.

At the southern tip of Anfalas, Aragorn first sees the sea. It is incomprehensibly vast, all the shades of blue and green and grey which have ever existed, and Aragorn stops his horse on the top of the hill they’ve been climbing and just stares. Arwen, beside him, also reins her mount in, and Curran stops a little ways down the hill and looks back at them in amusement.

“First time you’ve seen the sea, is it, Strider?”

“Yes,” Aragorn says softly. “I’ve heard tales, of course…but it’s not something you can tell in words, is it.”

“No,” Curran agrees. “I’ve tried to write it a few times – seems like the sort of thing you can get a bloody good song out of, doesn’t it? But it all sounds trite as soon as you write it down.”

Arwen nods in understanding. “I quite agree,” she says. “Did you write the _Lay of Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer_?”

Curran laughs. “Me? No! I wish I had, it’s the most popular song I know, but that’s from one of the city bards. Claims he saw the whole thing himself, though I’d bet he was hiding in a cellar, the coward.”

“It’s a good song,” Aragorn says, “but you know many good songs. Why is that one so popular?”

Curran shrugs. “It’s the novelty of the thing,” he explains. “A woman warrior? One deadly enough to take down the King of the Nazgul, him as was kept alive by the Dark Lord’s own magics? ‘S not like anyone in Gondor’s seen a woman warrior in, oh, hundreds of years.”

Aragorn blinks in shock. No female warriors in Gondor? None at all? The Dunedain women are as deadly as the men; the women of the dwarves as fierce as their brothers; the women of the elves – he darts a glance at Arwen – as beautiful and dangerous as a waterfall. “I see,” is all he says, and spends the rest of the day in silence. Curran has given him much to contemplate, indeed.


	11. Woodshaven

They travel with Curran a full circuit of his route, a loop which takes a year to finish. Arwen becomes quite proficient on the lute. Aragorn memorizes the _Lay of Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer_ , and sings accompaniment with Curran for that and other songs. They see villages so poor that the people do not even have an inn, and the travelers must sleep in a barn; they see rich towns with marketplaces and bickering merchants and well-kept inns which fill with people when the bard arrives.

In Long Wood again, Aragorn is pleased to see that Finla and Borin have their first child, and still clearly dote upon each other. The Mayor and Olvor are not friends, but the rest of the townsfolk are glad to tell Aragorn about the peace which has descended on the town since the quarrel was so well resolved. Aragorn is quietly proud.

They part ways with Curran in Long Wood; Aragorn wants to go west, into Andrast, to see what there is to see there. Curran warns them about the rumors of bandits and orcs, and Aragorn promises to be vigilant and on his guard. Arwen just smiles, and assures Curran that they are quite capable of defending themselves.

Andrast is hill country, full of little pocket valleys with shepherds and goatherds in them, tiny towns tucked away into the shadow of hills and wary of strangers. The lute that Arwen bought in Long Wood earns them tentative acceptance, and Aragorn remembers enough songs to pass as a bard of sorts, but the people of Andrast are not as easy-going as those of the Lefnui valley, or Anfalas, or Ered Nimrais. Aragorn finds most of them never speak more than a few words to him, and that grudgingly. It’s a hard land and a hard life, and Aragorn tries not to take it personally.

Down near the very tip of the Andrast peninsula, Aragorn and Arwen find a small farm which has been burnt to the ground. Aragorn is appalled. Arwen spots the remains of several people in the ashes and debris of the burnt farmhouse: probably the farm’s owner and their family. Aragorn digs a grave and places the poor sad things in the ground, and wonders if the tragedy was wrought by orcs or men. Orcs, he could understand: it is their nature to be cruel and violent. But how could one man do this to another?

In the next week, they find three more burnt-out farms, though the last two have, thank the Valar, no bodies within the ashes. Clearly the inhabitants managed to escape, and Aragorn holds out hope that they have banded together, perhaps in some defensible place.

It turns out he’s correct: another day’s travel brings them to a small, walled town, its gates tightly shut and its people standing guard over them with makeshift pikes and boar spears. Aragorn takes his hood down and rides towards the gate slowly, hands ostentatiously empty. Arwen does not lower her hood, but she brings the lute around so it is visible and makes no sudden movements.

They stop in front of the gate, and Aragorn calls up, “Have you room for two weary travelers?”

A harsh laugh answers him. “What sort of fool travels in Andrast by choice?”

Aragorn shrugs. “Fool I may be, but I and my companion are dusty and tired, and would pay well for bed and food.”

There’s grumbling from the top of the wall, but the consensus among the beleaguered townsfolk seems to be that no one so prosperous-looking and so very foolish is a bandit, and so the gates creak open just enough to let the travelers in. Inside, Aragorn looks over his hosts. They are thinner than they should be, and some are injured. Clearly, there is work here for a future king of Gondor. 

There’s a rather shabby inn, and Aragorn decides that safe is better than sorry: he and Arwen play and sing for their supper, and take the dingy little room which costs the least. The next morning, he goes out to watch the men of the town practice their weaponswork.

They’re…well, frankly, they’re pitiful. Aragorn could have defeated the best of them when he was ten. They have no idea how to work together, their weapons are in piss-poor shape, and the only thing which is keeping the bandits from running roughshod over them is probably the stone walls of the little town. Aragorn picks up a wooden sword – at least they’re sensible enough not to practice with live steel, as pitiful as they are! – and joins the end of a line, mimicking the drill and trying to emphasize the correct way to perform it.

After a few minutes, the man beside him begins imitating him, and after a little longer, Aragorn has a little circle of men trying to emulate his movements.

The man who’d been leading the drill watches them for a while, then snorts. “You know what you’re doing, stranger.”

Aragorn grounds his wooden sword and nods. “I’ve had some training, aye. I’d be glad enough to help you and your men.”

“At what price?” the leader wonders suspiciously. Aragorn tries to look disarming.

“Room and board for myself and my friend and our horses; that’s all I ask.”

“Hrmph. And what do you get out of it, then – the chance to loot our houses behind our backs while we’re out fighting the bandits?”

Aragorn has never encountered such blatant hostility before, but he draws himself up tall. “I have no need to loot houses, friend. I offer my aid and that of my companion, who is a skilled healer, because that is the duty of a Ranger.”

To his surprise, the man’s harsh expression softens a little. “A Ranger, you say? Aye, and that explains the cloaks and all. Well, if you’re one of that mad lot, I suppose you’re in it for honor or some such nonsense. Well, we’ll take the training, and room and board and stabling is little enough to pay. But if we catch you or your companion doing anything…fishy…we’ll not be so kind as all that, Master Ranger.”

“I understand completely,” Aragorn replies. He is a little baffled by honor being described as ‘nonsense,’ but that is not what he needs to be thinking about right now. He raises the wooden sword again. “If you men will line up, I will see what I can do to help you improve.”

The men are eager enough to learn, even if they clearly still mistrust Aragorn’s motives, and he guides them through strikes and blocks, and the basics of fighting as a group. They won’t be up to Dunedain standards anytime soon – Aragorn rather thinks he could take the lot of them if he had to, and if Arwen was beside him it would hardly be a fight at all – but any improvement is better than nothing, and every hour of practice is a blessing.

In the end, they have a week before the bandits come.


	12. Bandits

The bandits announce their arrival with a flight of arrows at dawn, aiming for the ill-armored guards on the wall. Two of them fall, mortally wounded; several more scream with injury. Aragorn, who has been taught that dawn is a common time for attacks, is awake and standing near the wall with the ten or fifteen men who trust that he knows what he is talking about. (He has not even dared to _mention_ that Arwen is a far more experienced fighter than he is, not after seeing the way these people refuse to acknowledge that women can be warriors. None of the women of the town so much as know how to draw a bow, and though much swordplay can be boiled down to, ‘The sharp end goes towards the other fellow,’ Aragorn is not sure the women of this town have even been taught that much. It is appalling.)

When he sees the men on the wall fall, Aragorn orders his followers to stand firm and sound the alarm and hurries up the stairs, keeping low as he hurries from one injured fellow to another. He does what he can for them, urges the injured to go below, and only then peers over the wall to see the enemy.

The bandits are human. Aragorn realizes suddenly how very much he had hoped they would be orcs – orcs he could kill without qualm, orcs he has been raised to hate. But humans; how can he kill humans? Yet if he does not, the townsfolk have little chance of surviving. He has seen the cruelty these bandits aim at their victims. He could not live with himself if he fled and left the townsfolk to the mercy of their enemies.

There are several dozen of them, and Aragorn dares not raise his head enough to get a really good view, but he rather thinks the one in the fanciest hat – it is a ridiculous thing – is probably the leader. Aragorn bends and picks up an abandoned bow – the archer, wounded, having left the wall – and raises it slowly. He’s no master archer, but he can hit what he shoots at, and the bandit chieftain is well within Aragorn’s range.

He stands, aims, and shoots all in one motion, and is crouched behind the wall again before his arrow hits. Five or six arrows clatter off the wall in front of him, and one arches over the wall and hits dirt in the cleared space behind it, but when Aragorn peers out, Fancy Hat is down with Aragorn’s arrow through his throat, and his men are clustered around him in apparent confusion. A good shot; his mother would be proud of him.

And he has killed a man.

Aragorn takes a deep breath and hurries down from the wall. Right now he does not have time to think about that. He has a town to defend, and he’s pretty sure the loss of their leader won’t dissuade the bandits from attacking. Later…later he can think about this. Much later.

He rallies the townsfolk easily enough – he’s someone giving orders that make sense, and not panicking, so he’s pretty much automatically in charge – and a few minutes later he has men up on the walls, shields in front of them, to protect the archers. It’s clumsy but it works, and the return fire from the bandits is much less effective than their first volley. Aragorn watches for a few minutes to make sure they have the hang of it, then rallies the men who have been practicing swordwork with him for a week. They’re better than they were, at least.

They open the gate just far enough to march out, and the bandits, glad to see _something_ they can attack, charge. Aragorn is in the front line, of course: where else would he be? And for just a moment, seeing the bandits running at him, he cannot imagine raising his sword. To kill a man at a distance is one thing; to kill one close in, to shed blood with his own hand, is suddenly and horribly different.

He does it anyhow. The bandits aren’t any better swordsmen than the townsfolk, and Aragorn kills three of them before they even notice he’s the biggest threat. Their blood is warm and sticky, and Aragorn wants nothing more than to go sit down quietly somewhere and throw up, but he kills another, and another. They’re all clustering around him now, the townsfolk forgotten, and to Aragorn’s faint pride the townsfolk have taken the opportunity to attack the bandits from behind while they’re distracted with him. Aragorn knows some of his allies will be hurt, perhaps killed, but at this precise moment he can do little but concentrate on the enemies around him, keep his sword moving and his shield up, and hope in the back of his mind that the future king of Gondor doesn’t end up dead in a backwoods skirmish against half-trained bandits. That would be…embarrassing.

He’s actually beginning to get a little worried, since there are a lot of bandits trying to kill him and only one of him, and the townsfolk aren’t exactly incredibly competent. Oh, they’re trying, but a week’s worth of training isn’t going to turn farmers and goatherds into a company of fighting men.

From the gate behind him comes the sound of hoofbeats, and the trumpet of a furious warhorse, and then Arwen is beside him on her steed, sword flashing, and now there is hope. Arwen is beautiful and deadly, faster than any mortal could hope to be, and her horse is of elven breeding, strong and swift and marvelously trained. With her beside him, Aragorn cuts a swath through the bandits, and after very little time they break and flee into the woods – what’s left of them.

Aragorn calls his men together, orders them to see to the wounded and the dead, and not to pursue: a man running for his life is almost always faster and cannier than the man chasing him. He himself stands guard, watching the forest in case the bandits regroup and return, until the wounded have all been brought within the walls, the dead been laid out properly in the cleared ground where they have held weapons practice this past week. Only then does Aragorn clean his sword and re-enter the town, letting the gates close behind him and Arwen.

The townsfolk nod to him respectfully, but he sees the odd looks they give Arwen, the tiny flinches when she passes them. He does not think they will be welcome here much longer, and he puts a hand on her leg when she makes a movement to dismount and go to tend their wounded. “No,” he says softly, for elven ears alone. “They fear you now.”

They walk back to the inn in silence. Aragorn keeps seeing the face of the second man he’s ever killed, the first one who met his sword. He looked…surprised. Like he just heard some interesting news, or saw an unusually colored animal. It would almost have been easier if he had been angry, or sad, or anything Aragorn might have expected.

When they reach their inn, the innkeeper is waiting for them. He takes Arwen’s horse silently, giving her a long and worrisome look, and they pass him and go up to their room in silent contemplation. Aragorn sinks down on the lefthand bed and puts his head in his hands. Arwen sits quietly beside him, one hand on his shoulder, until he feels ready to speak.

“I have killed men,” he says slowly. “My hand has brought their deaths.”

Arwen sighs softly. “The first battle is the hardest,” she tells him. “I was blooded against orcs and foul things, and for that I thank the Valar; but oh, my friend, it is a hard thing indeed to kill a Man.” And then she holds him as he weeps.


	13. As Time Goes By

The bandits are not the only men Aragorn kills in the next eight years; nor are the odd looks the last Arwen endures. They travel together from one end of Gondor to the other, only avoiding Minas Tirith, and Aragorn marvels at the Anduin’s broad sweep and the peaks of Belfalas mountains, helps bring in the harvest in South Gondor and sow seeds in Lamedon. Arwen teaches healing skills to anyone who asks her, and shows the women of the towns they visit certain simple moves which might, some day, protect them. Sometimes they make their way as bards, sometimes as merchants’ bodyguards, sometimes simply as Rangers.

Aragorn knows it’s not yet time to take his throne, that going to Minas Tirith before Ecthelion is ready to step down will end messily. But he is growing weary of the hunger he sees on his peoples’ faces, of the tithe caravans piled with the food his people will need for the winter, of the bandits who are never dealt with by the lords, of the lords who never leave their safe white city to see their people. He is downright tired of the way people look at Arwen when she uses her sword or her bow, like she’s something out of a legend or a hero-tale, not a well-trained woman. Her skill comes from years of practice, not from magic or divine decree, and yet the Gondorians treat her like something dangerous and fey, and when she has to fight, they leave soon after with the townsfolks’ eyes hot upon their backs.

They are always welcome in East Bank and in Long Wood, and Aragorn is more than flattered when Finla’s firstborn is named Ranger, and her secondborn Meren. They meet Curran another time or two, spend evenings laughing over his tales and leave again come morning, but they travel alone for the most part, just the two of them and their horses.

Aragorn keeps a list, in his head, of things he will need to change when he takes the throne. On the long summer evenings as they sit watching the sunset, he discusses them with Arwen: better taxation systems, a military force to train local militias and help protect against bandits, laws restricting the excesses of lords. It is Arwen who suggests that he bring the Dunedain to Gondor, set them as watchmen upon their long-lost land. The more Aragorn thinks of it, the more he likes the idea: the Dunedain will care for the people of Gondor as much as Aragorn himself does, and will not be dissuaded from their duty by bribes or threats or familial connections. In time, of course, they will intermarry with the people of Gondor and become part again of their old homeland, but that too is a good thing. Not all of them will come, he knows; there are enough of them who love the north well, and will not leave the Shire and Rivendell for the unknown hospitality of Gondor, but Gilraen will come, and there are many who will follow her.

Arwen has other good ideas, as well: a schooling system, with traveling teachers until they can get enough people trained, who stay one winter with each village. Or traveling judges, so that incidents like the feud in Long Wood don’t take hold and fester. Certainly the roads need work: some of them are well-graded and well-traveled, and others are no more than donkey trails. Gondor is a large country, and Aragorn knows that if and when he actually gets a military force together, they’re going to need roads to travel on. He thinks that he will write to Bilbo, as the Shire’s roads are well-tended and their Shirriffs well-trained.

Aragorn learns that winter is hard for his people. In Rivendell, winter was an excuse for ice sculpture and elegant furs and stargazing in the long nights. In Belegost, the halls are heated warmly and the children scamper in and out of the tunnels to play in the snow. The dwarves do not pause their mining and crafting for so simple a thing as the weather. In the Shire, winter is a time for visiting, for long stories and night-long parties, for family and friends. In Dale, winter is a time for gift-giving and laughter, for ice-skating on the frozen lake and snowball fights in the fields. The Men of Dale bundle themselves into layers of wool and fur until they are nearly spherical, and nail cleats to their boots, and go about their business.

In Gondor, winter is the hard time, the cold time, the dark time. On Midwinter’s Day there are bonfires and gifts, in celebration of the sun’s return, but otherwise people huddle in their houses, knit or sew or whittle and wait for warmth again. They regard Aragorn and Arwen as quite mad for traveling in winter, though the innkeepers adore them, as winter is their slowest time and any money is a blessing.

It is winter, nearly ten years after they crossed the White Mountains and saw a swollen river and a village in peril, when Arwen tells him that she will be going home to Rivendell come spring. “I have learned much,” she tells him quietly, “both about Gondor and about my great good friend Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen. I think you will be a good king in time. But I find myself weary of wandering, and wish to go home.”

Aragorn can empathize. He misses Gilraen, and Prince Bilbo, and Bofur, and Primrose and her children. He misses the laughter of dwobbit children who have never known fear, and the long afternoons debating policy with Fili and Balin. He misses weapons practice with Glorfindel and Dwalin. He knows his destiny is to be king, but sometimes he wishes he could just…go home and forget about this whole messy, half-broken kingdom which he is meant to fix.

But that is a child’s thought, and he turns his mind from it. Instead, he promises to accompany Arwen as far as the Isen, and then, he thinks, he will turn east, and go through Rohan on his way to Minas Tirith. Perhaps the Rohirrim will be a pleasant change from the Gondorians: he knows that there are shieldmaidens among the Rohirrim, at least, and so he will not be constantly baffled by peoples’ insistence that women cannot and should not be warriors.

They travel up the Lefnui once spring arrives, stopping for a few days in East Bank to visit Berthold (quite old now, and succeeded as village chief by his nephew, a broad-shouldered fellow who looks like he’s as dumb as an ox and has a bright wit and a clever mind). The village is thriving, to Aragorn’s quiet delight, and Berthold tells them that once each season the strong men of the village venture up the pass to check on the lake and make sure no more disastrous dams have formed. So far, none have, but Berthold is a firm believer in ‘better safe than sorry.’

The trip back over the pass is much less stormy than the first time, and soon they are looking north across plains and rivers towards Rivendell and the Shire. Aragorn and Arwen are both leaner and stronger now, after ten years of constant travel with intermittent fighting thrown it, and their patient horses know their cues so well it sometimes seems they can speak to the animals. The trip to the Isen crossing is swift and simple.

Aragorn sends his horse back to Rivendell with Arwen. He is going to Minas Tirith, after all, and he does not know how many stables there will be in the city. And he can always find a horse in Rohan.

The ferryman overcharges them again, but Aragorn pays without argument. Some things are better not to fuss about.

Arwen turns to him as the ferryman leads the horses aboard his boat. “I will miss you,” she tells him solemnly. “You have been a fine companion to me, and a brave warrior beside me. Send for me should you need aid, and I will come.” She pauses and then grins, wide and wonderful. “Also I will come to your coronation, and I expect you to be ready to dance with me.”

She turns and is gone before Aragorn can muster a retort, but he stands and watches until she reaches the far shore safely. Only then does he turn east, looking through the Gap of Rohan into his future.


	14. Faramir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is ridiculously unrealistic and idealistic in regards to gender identity problems.

Findulias lives long enough to see her son named, to bless her children and to give Boromir one last command: “Look after your brother,” she tells him. “Be good to him, dear heart.” Boromir promises, though he does not understand why Parsha is weeping, why his father stands with a face like a stormcloud beside the birthing bed, why his mother does not stretch out her hands to take little squalling Faramir from Parsha’s arms.

He does not understand anything in the days that follow but that Mother has gone away, and he must look after Faramir. He hovers around the wet nurse who is found to care for his brother, pesters her with questions and peremptory commands, but she does not mind as much as she might, because the easiest way to render Boromir silent and still is to place his baby brother in his arms. Then Boromir sits quietly, cradling the infant as Parsha showed him, and coos softly to the younger child. Faramir never sleeps as well as when he is in his brother’s arms.

(Since Boromir is so good with his brother, Parsha often asks his help in bathing and feeding the younger boy. Boromir does notice that Faramir looks rather different, undressed, than he himself does; but he chalks it up to youth, or simple vagaries of the human form. It is not as though he has seen anyone _else_ undressed, after all. For all he knows, people come in as many shapes and configurations as do trees. Certainly his mother was tall and thin, and Parsha is short and plump and wrinkly, and Denethor is tall and lean and predatory-looking. He puts it from his mind, and does not ask.)

They grow, as children do. The wet nurse is dismissed when her services are no longer required, and goes back to her own home with tales of moody, cruel Denethor and his sweet-natured older son; but it is the tales of Denethor which are remembered and murmured in markets and inns, passed on in gossip sessions and workman’s conversations. Denethor the traitor, who now has sons, and no wife to restrain him: who knows what he will teach the children, what havoc he will raise them to wreck upon the city? 

Boromir knows little enough of this, growing day by day with his brother beside him. He plays with sticks at swords and archery, and if he learns quite young that his father frowns thunderously upon pretending that he is Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer, well, there are other great heroes of legend for Boromir to mimic. Faramir follows him always, a constant shadow since he learned to toddle, mimicking his movements and parroting his words, and Boromir, remembering his mother’s last command, dotes upon the younger child. They have no other playmates: who would send their children to play with the traitor’s sons? And Denethor would not stand for any children who were not noble to accompany _his_ sons. 

It is a pity, Parsha sometimes thinks, and then again a blessing, that Denethor decided when Faramir was born that the boy was clearly weak and womanly. For he can look at the two children playing with their wooden soldiers and praise Boromir for his military enthusiasm and mock Faramir for his love of dolls in the same breath. He can observe the two children winding scarves around their head and applaud Boromir’s gift for knots and deride Faramir’s liking for feminine fripperies. Any other father, Parsha is quite sure, would see Boromir with a pile of kittens, cooing at them adoringly, and wonder at his ‘son’s’ gentle nature; but Denethor assumes that Boromir is encouraging the creatures to fight. Any other father would notice that Boromir prefers soft fabrics for his clothing, and keeps a favorite soldier in his pocket which he whispers secrets to, and begin to think the unthinkable. But Denethor praises his elder son for wearing the colors of his house, and for his eagerness to learn the arts of war, and does not see what is before his eyes. It is a pity and a blessing. 

When Boromir is five, his father orders him given schooling, and long-suffering Parsha finds a tutor; and so Boromir learns to read and write and figure, learns the history of his city and his kingdom. Faramir refuses to be parted from his older brother, and sits in the back of the little room playing with blocks or wooden soldiers; and when Faramir turns five and is in his turn given lessons, he goes eagerly for this chance to learn what his brother has learned. 

The instructor who is brought in for weaponswork is a sensible man: he decides to train both of them together, since, he reasons, if he were to only teach Boromir, the boy would simply try to train his brother himself, and both of them might be injured. So it is that Faramir is only seven when he is first handed a wooden sword and shown how to hold it; but, like his brother, he is clever and energetic and willing to work, and though he is smaller and more lightly built than Boromir, his swordwork is quite good for a child’s. The instructor tells him so, often, and so does Boromir. 

Unfortunately, there is one person in the household who cannot see the skill in Faramir’s young arms or the bright intelligence of his young mind: Denethor. Boromir has never been able to fathom his father’s dislike for Faramir, though Parsha claims it is because Faramir’s birth was Findulias’ doom. Whatever the reason may be, Denethor never passes up a chance to sneer at his younger son. Weakling, he calls him when Boromir disarms him in a practice bout. Womanly, he snorts when he catches Faramir helping the scullery maid carry in the washing. He disdains any evidence that Faramir is anything but a disgrace to the family line (“Hmph!” cries Parsha, privately, “as if he has a leg to stand on!”), and praises Boromir at his brother’s expense every chance he gets. 

Boromir hates it. Oh, he likes being told he is strong and manly and a good son, he is only a child and it is hard not to be proud of such compliments, but he knows full well that Faramir is nearly as skilled as he is at weaponswork and schoolwork alike. It’s true that Faramir is kind-hearted and courteous to everyone, and thinks no task beneath him; but Boromir does not see how that can be anything but praiseworthy, and so for every stinging insult Denethor spits at his younger son, Boromir whispers a word of commendation; for every disapproving look, Boromir provides murmured applause. Perhaps he should not do so; he knows Denethor will be furious if he finds out. But Boromir has looked after Faramir since he was born, and nothing, not even his father’s dreaded anger, will make him stop. 

* 

Boromir’s life changes for the second time when he is thirteen, and Parsha calls him into her tiny chamber, forbids Faramir from entering, and shuts the door tightly. 

“Child,” she says, “I must tell you something, and you must promise me that you will not speak of it to _anyone_.” 

Boromir shakes his head. “I keep no secret from my brother,” he protests. “I never have and I never will.” 

Parsha sighs. “Very well,” she says, “but no other, until your father is dead.” 

Boromir gapes, but slowly nods. “I swear,” he promises, “that I will speak of what you tell me to none but Faramir until my father is dead.” 

Parsha nods, and sits down creakily on her little bed. “Child, there is no easy way for me to say this. Know that when your honored mother, blessed be her memory, was heavy with you, your father demanded that his first child be a son. She and I were near desperate with terror, for are we gods to know the sex of a child yet in the womb? Yet you know your father’s rages; we feared what he would do if he should have a daughter.” 

“He is cruel enough to Faramir, who is only small and kind,” Boromir agrees. “I shudder to think what he would do to a girl-child.” 

“You speak truth indeed,” Parsha says. “So the child was born, and – well. You have been raised a boy, Boromir son of Denethor, but I tell you truly you came from your mother’s womb a daughter.” 

Boromir’s jaw drops. “I _what_?” 

“We fooled your father – he has never seen you laid bare,” Parsha explains. “But it would have been dangerous to tell a small child the truth, and indeed, I would have concealed it forever but for one thing. Your monthlies will begin soon. Already I think perhaps your breasts have begun to bud. You are becoming a woman, and so you are in grave danger, child.” 

Boromir sits down, hard, on the wood floor. A woman! How is this possible? He tries the words out in his head: daughter, sister, wife; they do not fit, he cannot imagine wearing them. Yet then again this seems to explain so much. His hips are wider than his brother’s, he has not the same equipment between his legs. No beard has begun to grow upon his cheeks. It makes so much sense, and yet, and yet… he has been a boy thirteen years; now shall he learn to be a woman, to spin and sew and cook and wear skirts? 

Finally he shakes his head. Parsha has been blessedly silent, letting him come to terms with the shock in his own time. “A boy I have been raised and a man I must become,” he says slowly. “I do not know who Boromir daughter of Findulias might be, and while my father lives I shall never know. With your help, I trust I can conceal whatever signs of womanhood may come upon me.” He grins, a little wryly. “And Faramir will help, too.” He pauses, then barks a harsh laugh. “And to think that Father has always called _him womanly!”_

Parsha stands and pulls him to his feet and into an embrace. “Child,” she tells him, “you have all your mother’s courage and more.” Then she opens the door and calls Faramir in, and a few minutes later, they are a conspiracy of three. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few words of explanation: first, Denethor is an ass. He decides, pretty much from the get-go, that Boromir is strong and manly, and that Faramir is weak and girly, and *does not see* anything else. (Also he thinks strong and manly vs weak and girly is a thing, which, aiee, Denethor, strong and girly are not mutually exclusive! But then, he's an ass.) Secondly, Boromir has *no* encounters with any other children except Faramir, and with very few adults except Denethor and the handful of servants. Boromir and Faramir are basically in seclusion because no one wants anything to do with the traitor and his children. So Boromir has no context for...well...much of anything, honestly. Boromir's being told that (s)he is manly and Faramir is girly a) without knowing what the difference between men and women is, and b) while doing the *exact same things Faramir is doing.* So Boromir's a bit confused.
> 
> As always, please tell me if I've offended anyone.


	15. Rohan

Aragorn is intercepted well outside of Edoras by a tall man of middle years leading a troop of Rohirrim. He holds up his hands peaceably, smiling at the leader. “I am Strider of the Rangers,” he calls when they are close enough for speech. “I come in peace.”

The Rohirrim rein in their horses surrounding him, but the leader takes off his helmet and smiles back. “I am Theoden son of Thengel. Be welcome in Rohan, if you are not an enemy.”

“Just a traveler,” Aragorn assures him, and scant minutes later he’s up on a spare horse, riding beside Theoden as they head for Edoras.

Theoden, it turns out, is the heir apparent to Rohan’s throne. His father Thengel is a tall severe man who barely notices Aragorn’s arrival, but his mother Morwen Steelsheen is something else again. She is white-haired and straight-backed, with a sword at her side, and she looks Aragorn over critically, then nods. Apparently this is good enough for Theoden, who beams and draws Aragorn off to one side of the great hall, out of his father’s line of sight.

“Be welcome to Edoras,” he says cheerfully.

Theoden is only a little older than Aragorn is, Aragorn discovers through careful questioning, but he already has a son. Theodred is a serious boy, clever and kind and prone to thinking through his actions in a way which Aragorn did not learn until he was much older. Then again, Theodred has known he will be a king since he was old enough to know anything.

Theoden is also raising his orphaned niece and nephew. Eomer is a brave boy, full of laughter and mischief; Eowyn is a shieldmaiden, proud and quick-tempered, who follows her grandmother around whenever she can. Aragorn likes her immediately, tells her stories of his mother (never naming her, of course) and helps her with her swordwork. Eomer and Theodred follow Eowyn, and after a few days Aragorn finds himself with three teenagers following him around like puppies, imitating his swordwork and his archery and peppering him with questions about the Dunedain and his travels.

Theoden is vastly amused by his children’s affection for Aragorn, and Aragorn finds it more than pleasant to have someone to talk to who is also the heir to a country’s throne – not that Aragorn mentions that, of course, but still, it’s good to have even that tenuous connection. And Theoden is a good man, sensible and thoughtful and with a great love for his people. He will be a good king of Rohan, one of these days.

Aragorn does not spend much time around Thengel – the man does not care to socialize with wandering Rangers of no account – but Morwen Steelsheen overhears him talking to Eowyn about some of Gilraen’s exploits, and joins their little conclave, sitting on the hearth and smiling as Aragorn describes his mother in battle, all elegant motion and fury. Eowyn runs off once the story is over, fired up with enthusiasm and eager for weapons practice, but Morwen stays seated beside Aragorn.

“You have some skill at story-telling,” she says at last.

Aragorn smiles. “I had good teachers,” he replies, thinking of Ori’s skill with epic poetry, of Glorfindel’s tales of great battles past.

Morwen nods. “It is good for Eowyn to hear of women warriors. Even in Rohan, there are not as many shieldmaidens as one might expect.”

Aragorn says, slowly, “While I was in Gondor, I…could not help but notice that there are no warrior women among them. It was very strange. Every man and woman in the Dunedain can fight and sew and cook and ride; there is no men’s work and women’s work, for everyone must know everything to survive. Among the dwarves of Belegost, each dwarf chooses their craft and never turns from it, and the women are as deadly as the men, and as respected.”

Morwen smiles, a little sadly. “I do not know if my son has told you,” she replies, “but I was raised in Dol Amroth. I wanted nothing more than to be a warrior, a great hero with a sword by my side, and I pestered my father until at last he gave in and allowed me to study the arts of war. But I found when I was grown that no man of Gondor would have such a woman – that all of Dol Amroth found me a joke, an unnatural creature. I left because I could not bear their mockery, and came to Rohan, where I had heard that women rode and fought alongside men. I married Thengel young, because he never told me that I could not be a warrior, and so I thought I loved him. I am glad that my granddaughter has the choice to be a shieldmaiden; it is not a choice which I was ever given.”

Aragorn flinches. “I am sorry,” he says at last. “The ways of Gondor are strange to me, and I do not care for all of them.”

Morwen shrugs. “Most of the women of Gondor are happy,” she says. “Still, I cannot be the only one who wishes to be a warrior – though I am sure they tell tales of me to fright the children in Dol Amroth.”

*

After that day, Aragorn finds himself seeking Morwen out often: she is frighteningly smart, and does not shy away from observations which might offend, but that is what Aragorn needs right now. He knows he is a little more idealistic than perhaps is wise.

Morwen, alone among all those he has met during his travels, he swears to secrecy and tells of his destiny. She is silent for a long time after he tells her, sharp blue eyes assessing him until he feels laid bare to the bone, and then, at last, she smiles.

“You need seasoning,” she tells him, “and for all your travels you do not yet understand Men.” He nods; this is quite true. Her smile widens into a grin. “I think you will surprise Gondor,” she says, and bares her teeth in something which has no more mirth in it. “ _Good_.”

*

Theoden allows Aragorn to accompany him on his frequent rides out to survey the land and make sure no orcs or bandits have been harassing his people. Theoden is good company, and Aragorn enjoys the riding: orcs and bandits are few and far between, so for the most part the excursions consist of twenty or thirty warriors chatting and pointing out interesting features of the landscape, and occasional stops at small villages or single-family holdings to make sure everything is going well. Aragorn learns the sort of dirty jokes which horsemen use, and sings the _Lay of Gilraen Nazgul-Slaye_ r when it is his turn to entertain beside the campfire.

He stays four months, but at last he knows that he can put off his true destination no longer, and with fond farewells to Morwen and Theoden and the children, he turns his steps to Minas Tirith and his future throne.


	16. Minas Tirith

Denethor dies when Boromir is fourteen. It is, to be utterly honest, an immense relief to both of his sons: the masquerade can end, now; his constant cruelty is done. But when the first blush of guilty joy has faded, Boromir decides that he will wear men’s clothes and seeming a little longer.

“Faramir is young yet to be the oldest man of the house,” he tells Parsha, who nods. “And I do not have any of the skills a daughter ought. I shall earn my way with my sword, if Grandfather will not support us. I am comfortable so.”

Parsha has to agree that a daughter of the house of Denethor would, in many ways, be much more vulnerable than a son, though even a son is not protected, and so as far as anyone outside their little conspiracy knows, Boromir is Denethor’s son and heir. Unfortunately, Denethor had little for his son to inherit – little but the title ‘traitor’ and the hatred of the cityfolk.

Boromir’s monthlies come upon her a month after her father’s death. Parsha tells her that they are rather later than perhaps they should be – almost worrisomely so – but then, she has heard tell of monthlies being delayed by stress, and life with Denethor was certainly stressful.

They are an odd shock to Boromir: proof that she is a woman. She finds she cannot quite think of herself as a man anymore, though Faramir still calls her ‘brother’ and she refuses to even consider wearing skirts. Parsha tells them tales, now that Denethor is gone, of Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer, brave and skilled in war as any man, and Boromir privately takes the heroine as an omen and an inspiration: it is possible to be a woman and a warrior of renown, and so Boromir swears she will be.

The second shock the monthlies bring, on top of the unexpected and visceral realization that she is actually female, is the dreams. Boromir has never thought much of sex – children usually do not, after all – but now she dreams at night of things she cannot quite remember and awakens wet and yearning. She finds herself eyeing the butcher boy’s broad shoulders and the lean strength of the grocer’s eldest son. It is baffling and rather worrying.

Still, she has more to worry about than dreams and a few uncomfortable days every month. (She sits through Parsha’s lessons on how to avoid becoming pregnant, and listens dutifully, but really – what man is going to lie with a warrior woman who dresses as a man?) Her grandfather Adrahil pays for the upkeep of the house and the wages of the servants, but Boromir knows full well that he would be happy if she and her brother simply…weren’t a problem anymore. It’s humiliating to be the father-in-law of Denethor the traitor, and Boromir and Faramir are merely reminders of that, and of his daughter’s death. (Her grandfather Ecthelion, as far as she knows, does not even know that he has grandsons, he has so comprehensively avoided any knowledge of his traitor son. Boromir would be offended if she had the energy, but it’s really not worth the time and effort to go up to the palace and be sent away again.)

So despite Parsha’s advice and fretting, every day she and Faramir go out into the city to look for work. Faramir is young enough that he could become an apprentice, if they could only find a master for him; Boromir is strong and skilled enough that she could become a house guard of some sort, if only someone would hire her. She tried the City Guard first, of course, but Captain Hallas gave her a long sober look and shook his head. It’s the politest rejection she’s gotten so far. The lower-class people of the city look at her and Faramir and see well-bred boys mocking them, no good for hard labor and more trouble than they’re worth; the upper classes see only the traitor’s sons, and laugh behind their hands to see how far Denethor’s children have fallen.

If Boromir is honest, the only thing she and Faramir are getting out of the daily expeditions is a lot of bruises. It’s…depressing how many packs of boys of every walk of life have deduced that Boromir and Faramir have no one to speak for them. Hardly a week passes without some group or other deciding that ‘beat up the traitor’s boys’ is the game of the day. Boromir does her best to protect Faramir – and it’s quite a good best: she is husky and well-trained and not afraid to hit low – and Faramir is fast and ruthless when he needs to be, but the fact remains that the number of days when they limp home with bruises and cuts and filthy clothing is much larger than Parsha would like. Boromir tries to claim it counts as impromptu training. Faramir just sighs.

A sensible person, perhaps, might have given up on looking for work after the first six months of mocking laughter, cruel refusals, and semiregular beatings. Boromir, however, is a little too stubborn for her own good, and Faramir will back her to the end of the world. A year goes by with no change; and then another.

When Boromir is sixteen, the third major change in her life occurs. She and Faramir are facing off against another pack of idiots, these actually armed with sticks and knives, and she’s a little worried – there are more of them than usual, and she and Faramir are still sore from their last encounter with bullies. She is bracing herself for the onslaught when a man’s voice comes from behind her.

“Is it the custom of Minas Tirith to attack without provocation?” the man says, and Boromir half-turns so she can see this new arrival. He is very tall, and his hooded cloak hides everything but the glitter of his eyes, but the sword belted to his waist and the bow across his back are clear enough, and he is broad-shouldered, with scarred strong hands. He is glaring at the crowd of bullies, who give back before his obvious disapproval, unwilling to attack an adult, and an armed one at that, even if he is a foreigner. He stares furiously at them until they finally slink away, leaving Boromir and Faramir and the stranger alone in the narrow street.

“We thank you, sir,” Faramir says when their enemies are gone. “May we invite you to dinner in token of our gratitude?”

“Faramir, what are you doing?” Boromir hisses, but the stranger smiles, a hint of white teeth in the shadow of his hood, and replies,

“I would be honored, young sir.” He glances over at Boromir, and bows a little. “My name is Strider, and I will do no harm to you or your household. But your elder brother is quite correct – strangers are not always friends, you know.”

“Strider cannot be your true name,” Boromir objects. The stranger chuckles.

“True enough, but as you have not given me either of your names, I think you have me at a disadvantage.”

Boromir flushes at the breach of courtesy. “Boromir and Faramir, sons of Denethor and Findulias,” she replies gruffly, and the stranger jerks as if she has struck him.

“Sons of Findulias of Dol Amroth?” he says, voice odd. “I think I will accept your invitation to dinner, masters Boromir and Faramir. There is somewhat I think I must discuss with you.”

It is odd enough for someone to react to her name without scorn or cruelty that Boromir does not even object to his following them home.


	17. Dinner With Parsha

To say Parsha is surprised when Boromir and Faramir show up with a stranger in tow is an understatement. There are only two servants left in the house now, Parsha and a cook, and Parsha spends her days worrying about the children and her evenings listening to their misadventures in the city. They have never brought someone home with them before.

Strider – a false name if Parsha has ever heard one – is polite and soft-spoken and does not comment on the poverty of the household, makes no snide comments about the traitor Denethor, and compliments the food. This does not lessen Parsha’s suspicions, but does convince her to wait until after the meal to interrogate him.

It turns out not to be necessary. When the meal is over, Strider sits back in his chair and directs a solemn look at the children. “My mother is Gilraen of the Dunedain,” he says.

Parsha’s jaw drops. Boromir, bless her, manages to keep the stunned look off her face; Faramir does not. Strider’s next sentence is, if possible, even more mind-boggling: “My mother told me that she made an oath to Findulias of Dol Amroth, that if her children should need aid, they might call upon my mother’s child. So: here I am, and I think – though you may tell me if I am wrong – that perhaps my aid is, indeed, needed.”

Parsha knows about the oath Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer gave to Findulias. So do Boromir and Faramir, since it’s one of the tales of their mother which Parsha has told them. But as far as Parsha knows, the only other people who know of that oath are Gilraen herself…and Gilraen’s son. Who is sitting at the dinner table in travel-stained clothes, smiling faintly at their stunned expressions.

Boromir turns to look at Parsha, and Parsha knows, suddenly, that whatever she chooses to say will change her precious wards’ lives forever. She is the only mother Faramir knows, and even Boromir’s memories of Findulias are faint and faded with time. She has been more a parent to them than Denethor ever was. If she tells them to stay, to remain in Minas Tirith where their ancestors have lived for generations, to tell Strider to leave and never return, they will do so, and she will keep her children, here in this crumbling house with their father’s shadow hanging over them.

“Go,” she says, harshly. “Go with him, children. Find a life beyond this city, beyond your father’s reputation. Go.”

“What about you?” Faramir asks quietly, and Parsha smiles at him, her tender-hearted boy, and pats his shoulder.

“I’ll be fine. My lord of Dol Amroth will give me a pension, and I will go and live in a little house in the sunshine and grow peonies and roses. Don’t you worry about me, dear.”

Boromir hugs her, quick and hard, and then turns to stand straight-backed before her future. “Take us with you,” she says to Strider, and Strider nods, solemnly.

“I will,” he promises, and the world changes.

*

Boromir is not quite sure she trusts Strider, son of Gilraen. Certainly she does not trust him with the secret of her true gender – not now, maybe not ever. Even if he _is_ the son of the great Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer, well, Gilraen was of the Dunedain. Strider might think a noble lady of Minas Tirith is a different thing – might think a noble lady has no place in war. Boromir does _not_ want to find out. It is altogether easier for her to present herself as Boromir, son of Denethor (or, as Strider styles her, son of Findulias – he clearly has opinions on which of her parents is more worthy of honor, but since they align well with Boromir’s own opinions, she doesn’t make a fuss).

Faramir, ever sunnier of temperament, is simply excited to be leaving Minas Tirith. Strider decided on the first evening that his own errands in the city could wait – though Boromir doesn’t know it, one of Parsha’s comments during dinner, about how Ecthelion is still hale and hearty for all his great years, reassured Aragorn immensely – and it is scant days after his arrival that he leaves again, with two teenagers in tow.

*

Aragorn, for all his brave talk, has very little idea what to do with a pair of brave, maltreated teenagers. Feed them, yes; train them, certainly; but Theoden’s children notwithstanding, he has pretty much nonexistent experience with teenaged children.

So he’s bringing them to Theoden. Well, what else can he do?

*

“You can _sew_?” Boromir asks incredulously. They are sitting around a campfire, waiting for the rabbit stew to finish cooking, and Strider has taken the opportunity to repair a long rent in his tunic.

Strider grins at her. “Of course I can sew,” he replies. “All Dunedain can. I can cook, too, you’ll notice. And I’m told I’ve a fine singing voice, though my dancing is lacking in grace.”

Boromir shakes her head. “But sewing is women’s work,” she objects. Strider frowns.

“There is no such thing,” he tells her solemnly. She shakes her head, and he holds up an admonitory hand. “No, I tell you truly there is no work which women are better suited to than men, nor that men are better suited to than women, save the bearing and suckling of infants, which of course men cannot do.” He pauses for a moment, considering, and then adds, “Among the dwarves of Belegost, you know, there are many female warriors and miners and smiths, and they are as talented as their brothers. Among the Dunedain, every man and woman must know how to cook and sew and hunt and clean a kill, how to fight and hide and ride and stitch a wound. Now that you are in a sense of the Dunedain – for you are my wards – you, too, must learn many things.”

Boromir sits silently, thinking through everything he has said; but Faramir leans forward to pick up one of the needles in Strider’s little sewing kit and test the point. “Show me,” he says.

The rest of the evening is given over to sewing lessons, with a brief deviation into the proper herbs to use in a rabbit stew, if they are available. Boromir does not speak, but she pays close attention to everything Strider shows them, and by the end of the evening she has re-attached a loose button on her spare tunic and can pick basil and thyme out of a heap of dried herbs without error.

Perhaps, she thinks as they roll themselves up in their blankets for the night, women’s work is not as terrifying as she has been making it out to be.

She falls asleep with the hand on the hilt of her sword.


	18. Rohan, Again

Theoden pretty much laughs himself sick when Aragorn shows up in Edoras a month after he left, trailing two teenagers and wearing an expression of utter bewilderment.

“They look a little old to be the products of your conquests in the city, my friend!” he calls when Aragorn is within earshot, and breaks down laughing again when Aragorn drops his head into his hands. The teenagers both chuckle, which is reassuring.

Aragorn sighs. “They are my wards, Boromir and Faramir,” he says wearily. “I could not think of where else to bring them, and your children are around the same age…”

“They are welcome,” Theoden assures his friend, stifling his laughter. “I am sure adding a few more children won’t strain our resources too much.” He turns to the boys, grinning broadly. “I am sure there is a tale behind this, but that may wait well enough; come, I will introduce you to my own children.”

*

Faramir likes Theodred and Eomer and Eowyn on sight. Boromir is a little more cautious – she is far too used to snide comments and outright insults – but none of the three Rohirrim teems even suggest they might know Boromir’s parentage. Instead, they welcome Boromir and Faramir into their little group at once, pelting them with questions about traveling with Strider. Boromir takes a while to get used to the unaccustomed and entirely pleasant sensation of having something to contribute to a conversation which isn’t defiance or excuses, but once she does, well. She could get used to this.

Aragorn is apparently trading his own expertise in tracking and woodland maneuvers for room, board, and training, and so Boromir and Faramir are hauled along to the salle with Theodred, to the stables with Eomer, to the archery butts with Eowyn. It’s fun, and exhausting, and everything which Boromir has ever wanted.

*

“You’re _good_ ,” Eomer says, blinking up at Boromir from where she’s flung him. Of course she’s good at unarmed combat, she thinks – it’s not like she got daily practice at being beaten up back in the city, or anything! But Eomer is looking at her with nothing but honest admiration in his eyes, and Boromir can’t quite hide the smile.

“Get up, and I’ll show you how I did that,” she offers, and when Eomer takes her hand, she thinks she has made a friend.

*

“Not bad, for a city boy,” Theodred allows, and Boromir sighs and reins her horse around again to see Theodred’s wry smile. “No, really,” the prince adds. “You’ve got marvelous balance and very good control. You just need practice.”

That’s…actually true, so Boromir just shrugs and reins the horse around again, setting it at the obstacle course at a brisk trot. There wasn’t much opportunity to ride in Minas Tirith – none, in fact – but she’s making progress now. So is Faramir, actually, though they’ve started him on a pony because he’s so much smaller than she is.

*

“I’m going to be the best shieldmaiden ever,” Eowyn tells Boromir as they clean their swords after practice. She’s already pretty good, Boromir has to admit: she’s fast and nimble and stupidly brave, and if it’s rude for Boromir to say that last, well, it takes one to know one. Boromir’s not quite sure what to make of Eowyn, of this girl who has everything Boromir’s ever wanted on a platter, but it’s hard not to like her.

Especially since it’s Eowyn who comes up with the best pranks, and Eowyn who has the best innocent face for getting them out of trouble. Though Faramir’s big brown eyes are also a very useful tool, and he does a marvelous puppy-dog imitation.

“You know, I think you will,” she tells Eowyn after a moment. “And then I’ll be able to tell everyone that I knew you when.” Eowyn laughs, and Boromir nudges her shoulder teasingly. “But I’ll still be better.”

“Why you!” cries Eowyn, and the boys find them tussling and laughing madly. Boromir thinks she has never been happier.

*

Aragorn is incredibly relieved that his half-baked plan (“Take the children to Theoden and hope he knows what to do with them”) has worked out. Boromir and Faramir seem to have formed fast friendships with Theoden’s three, and they can be found together at all hours, laughing and wrestling and making incomprehensible in-jokes. It’s quite charming, really. Stiff, wary Boromir has relaxed enough to smile more than once a day, and too-eager Faramir blossoms under the praise from Aragorn and the weaponsmasters.

Theoden teases him mercilessly about his flailing worry about how to deal with children, but it’s not as though Aragorn really has any relevant experience. Oh, he can change a diaper like nobody’s business, and he can feed a baby and rock it to sleep and sing lullabies in three languages (though he’s not sure what the ones in Khuzdul mean), but… _teenagers_. Scarred, frightened, horribly mistreated teenagers.

(He’d had a bit of a talk with Parsha while the boys were packing, and, well, Aragorn is not a violent man and hates even the idea of taking human life, but if Denethor had been in front of him at that moment, Aragorn would have cheerfully taken him to pieces. He will _never_ get used to the strange human disregard for children’s lives, and he never wants to. It’s horrifying and wrong. He’d told Parsha as much, his rage and sorrow evident on his face, and she had looked him over for a long moment and then patted his shoulder and nodded slowly. “You’ll be good for them,” she’d said, smiling, and he’d promised. If he does nothing else with his life, he’ll do his best for these two children.)

It’s actually rather nice in Edoras. Theoden has him running trainings for any of the Rohirrim who want to learn Ranger skills – tracking on foot instead of horseback, maneuvering in woods, hiding in plain sight. It’s a pleasant way to pass the time, and the Rohirrim are good students and friendly companions. When he’s not working with them, he’s with his wards.

Boromir is a startlingly good swordsman already, fast and strong and smart, and Aragorn works one-on-one with him as often as he can find time, refining every bit of that innate talent as far as it will go. Faramir is nearly as good, faster but without as much brute strength, and has an eye for tactics; he’s also so sweet-natured it’s a little worrisome, and has acquired a puppy and three kittens within the month. Boromir just puts a hand over his eyes and sighs every time Faramir brings another tiny animal back to their rooms, and Aragorn shakes his head and laughs.

It’s not how Aragorn meant to be spending the next few years, but if you’d given him the choice between helping raise a pair of good-natured, eager young swordsmen or skulking around in Minas Tirith waiting for an old man to die, well, Aragorn would have chosen this even without his mother’s oath. It’s good to see Boromir beam when he masters a new attack, to hear Faramir laugh as he and Eowyn chase each other through the halls. It’s good.


	19. Mardi Daughter of Hallas

Mardi has known she wants to be one of the City Guard forever. She was three when she told her mother she was going to be a warrior like her father when she grew up. She was six when she beat up a boy twice her size for picking on her little sister. She was ten when she demanded that her father teach her to fight, and he gave in because he always gave in when she really wanted something. She was twelve when Lady Gilraen killed the Nazgul, and proved once and for all that women can be warriors – better warriors than men, even.

Now she is twenty-nine.

She is not married and will not hear of a husband. She can use a sword or a bow or a dagger or a club as the occasion warrants. She is fast on her feet and one of the finest tacticians her father has ever seen. If she were male, she would be well on track to take over from her father as the head of the City Guard when he retires.

She is not male. She is not a member of the City Guard, though she practices with them every chance she gets and applies every year to the open hiring days. Every year, Sargent Ollaf gives her a sorrowful look and shakes his head, and she turns and stomps home with her sword at her back and a black look which drives people out of her path, and locks herself in her room for hours until she can be fit company for, well, anyone.

When she’s washed her face and changed her clothes and composed herself, she goes down for dinner, and her father gives her a long apologetic look and Rian babbles about her latest weaving project and they all pretend not to know that Mardi’s only real dream has just been squashed _again_ , and the tight knot of rage in her chest winds a little bit tighter. Someday, she thinks, she will not be able to keep her mouth shut a moment longer, and if she is very lucky someone will knock her out before she gets hauled up for treason and hung.

It’s not her father’s fault. She knows that Captain Hallas would be more than happy to have his elder daughter follow in his footsteps. But war hero or not, Captain Hallas does not have the last word on the City Guard. No, that’s some high-ranking noble asshole or other, one who hid in the deep caverns when the orcs surrounded the city and Lady Gilraen killed a monster out of legend to save people who knew nothing about it; and _he_ , whoever he is, doesn’t want his delicate little daughters getting any _ideas_.

She’s heard of Morwen of Dol Amroth, of course. She could run away to Rohan. Her father would probably buy her a horse and kiss her goodbye. But she does not want to be a shieldmaiden of Rohan. She wants to be a City Guard of Minas Tirith, to wear the black and silver of the vanished kings and stand atop the walls and dare the world to attack _her_ city, because she will stand between it and danger until death takes her.

She cards wool for her sister’s (quite successful) yarn shop – she can’t spin worth a damn, but the repetitive movements of carding are simple and hard to mess up – and she reads while she cards. She’s not a fast reader, but she’s stubborn, and over the years she’s gone through most of the history texts she could beg, borrow, or…“borrow”…from the city libraries. Once she gets back far enough, past the last few hundred years of blah blah blah Steward This raised taxes, blah blah blah Steward That built a new wing on the palace (so, so boring, seriously), she gets to what she’s always suspected:

Back when there were kings in Gondor, there were female warriors, too. As far as Mardi can trace it, she’s actually descended from one, on her mother’s side. There are a good thirty or forty generation between Amira of the Guard and Mardi who is _not_ of the Guard, but Mardi copies the paragraph which mentions Amira onto a scrap of parchment and keeps it in the back of her wardrobe, in a box with her other small treasures. It’s proof, in a way even Lady Gilraen wasn’t, that the women of Gondor are not weaker or less capable in war than their brothers: that Mardi is _not_ insane to want to stand beside the men of the City Guard wearing the same uniform, facing the same enemies.

Proof that no one else cares about, though. Mardi doesn’t even bother to show it to her father. She knows that he gets plenty of teasing about his mannish daughter, who has never shown any inclination to marry and who wears trousers and a sword belted over them and keeps trying, futilely, to join the Guard. He loves her, she has never doubted that, and he never speaks a word against her dreams, but she knows his life would be easier if she was a yarn merchant or a weaver or a cook, anything but a too-angry woman with a sword and an impossible dream. She isn’t going to show him a scrap of parchment and a piece of ancient history, not when it wouldn’t change a damn thing and would just make him give her that horrible apologetic look and change the subject.

Mardi knows that she’ll keep showing up once a year at the Guard’s hiring day, until the day she is too old to lift a sword. She knows that Sargent Ollaf will keep turning her away until the day it’s someone else’s job, and that Ollaf’s replacement likely won’t be as polite. She knows that she’ll never marry, because she does not want a man, never has and never will, and so her father’s line will go on through her sister (Biasin, who owns the clothing shop down the street, is courting Rian, who is probably going to accept, it’s a good match) and Mardi will keep carding wool and showing up at weapons practice and glowering at people in the street for the rest of her life.

She knows that her father’s life would be easier if she would just stop, would settle down and find a trade or marry and raise little ones. She knows her own life would be easier, too, and Rian would stop giving her sorrowful looks and her mother would stop sighing whenever she sees Mardi’s sword belted at her waist. But Mardi also knows that she was born to fight, that that is her proper and only trade, and she knows, too, that she will never stop trying.

Sometimes she dreams of another orcish army arriving, of every able-bodied man being ordered to the walls, of taking her sword and her leather armor and joining them when no one is left to object, and dying there upon the white walls of her city to save its people. It’s the only way she’ll ever get to guard her city, she knows that, and if it’s a bit morbid and worrisome to dream about your own death as a _good_ thing, well, Mardi’s never been what you’d call normal, has she now?

She was twelve years old when a woman of the Dunedain proved that women could be warriors, and really her fate’s been set from that day on. Maybe she was born a thousand years too late, maybe she ought to have been born in Rohan or among the Dunedain or as a dwarf or an elf or even in the far-off hidden hamlets in the corners of Gondor where no one really bothers to go, and women and men work side-by-side without a thought for propriety. But Mardi is a citizen of Minas Tirith. It is _her_ city, hers to protect and hers to defend, hers with its secrets and its lies and its beautiful white walls, and if she has been born too late to be a warrior on the city’s walls, well…too bad for history.

Mardi is twenty-nine, and a woman, and angry, and tomorrow is the hiring day. She gives her sword one last polish and hangs it up beside the leather armor she will wear tomorrow, and sighs, and knows that this year, nothing will change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up: I will be in an internetless location Sun and Mon, so there will be no chapters on those days, sorry!


	20. Battle

Boromir is quite proud the first time she is allowed to ride with the patrols, a year and a half after Strider brings them to Edoras. The pride wears off after the third or fourth patrol: patrolling is sweaty work, and she’s always a little wary of her secret being found out. Still, she likes patrolling, knowing that she is part of the first line of defense and that her shieldmates trust her at their side, and so she never complains when her name is called. Faramir is still too young to ride patrols, as is Eowyn, but Eomer and Theodred and Strider are all on the roster, and there’s an odd pleasure to riding beside her friends or her guardian, watching the long grass bend in the wind and listening to the hawks call, long and shrill.

Today she and Eomer and Strider are all with the patrol, along with a dozen Rohirrim, and Boromir rides near the front of the troop and imagines herself at the head of an army, galloping across the plains towards battle. It’s a nice image, and the thunder of hooves behind her and the whistle of the wind through the horsehair pennants on the Rohirrim helmets gives a certain realism to the fantasy. It’s really quite a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

Well, it’s a pleasant way to spend an afternoon until Peolan, riding at the front, holds up a hand to stop the troop and gestures Strider forward. They both peer into the distance – Strider has much better eyes than most of the Rohirrim, so he’s usually called up for scouting runs – and finally Strider says, a note of worry in his voice, “I do not think that is a cookfire, no.”

Then they are riding for the distant smoke, loosening their weapons as they go. Boromir has a sword and a shield, since her shooting from horseback is not yet everything it could be, and she straps the shield to her arm and takes a deep breath as they draw close to the fire. It is a farmhouse, and it is burning, and on the other side of the house there are…creatures.

“Orcs,” says Eomer, voice flat, and Boromir draws her sword and joins the charge.

The battle is a series of bright moments in her mind: her sword shining in the sunlight, her horse rearing to trample the enemy as she blocks a clumsy pike, Eomer and Strider beside her fighting valiantly. But what Boromir really remembers from the battle, beyond the black blood and the terror, is the strange joy of it.

Because she is _good_ at this. Her sword goes where she wants it to, her shield blocks all comers. She kills, and kills, and kills again, and the movements of the orcs make sense to her, she can see exactly where she needs to strike, where she needs to be, and it is so easy.

Perhaps it is wrong to be good at war, perhaps it is unladylike to be a skilled killer, but by the Valar, Boromir has finally found what she is _meant_ to do, and she has proven to everyone around her that she is a warrior worthy of respect, blooded and fearsome, and she is very, very proud.

*

Aragorn is quite proud of his young protégé. He did very well today: fast and ruthless, as one must be in battle, and willing to do his part in the clean-up afterwards. Several of the Rohirrim went out of their way to clap the lad on the back and congratulate him on such a successful first fight, and Boromir was beaming through it all. Aragorn himself has already congratulated the boy, but he wants to do it again in private.

Aragorn also knows quite well that the sort of battle haze which Boromir was clearly under keeps people from noticing their wounds – he’s seen it before, often with nasty consequences. Boromir took off for the bathhouse as soon as they returned to Edoras, and Aragorn heads in that direction to make sure that the boy is unwounded and hale.

It does not occur to Aragorn that he has never seen Boromir bathing before. Or rather, it does not occur to him until he pushes open the door to the bathhouse and strides in, and then claps a hand over his eyes, flushes a deep crimson, and strides out again to slump against the wall and sink down, eyes still covered. _Then_ he remembers that Boromir has always been very picky about his privacy.

… _Her_ privacy.

…Well.

*

Boromir does not scream when Aragorn walks in on her in the bathhouse. She’s rather proud of that, actually. She does not scream, she does not throw anything, she does not drown herself in the bath. She takes a long minute to take deep breaths and carefully not think about how _horribly_ wrong everything just went, and then she wraps herself in a towel and walks out into the corridor.

Strider is sitting against the wall with his head in his hands and his cheeks stained deep red with embarrassment. It’s…well, it’s better than what Boromir expected, which was anger at her deception. She clears her throat, and Strider peers up at her through his fingers and then raises his head when it is clear that she is decently covered.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Strider says, quite sincerely if Boromir is any judge, “I’m terribly sorry for walking in on you.”

It’s not a condemnation of her masquerade or an order to cease war training. That could still come, but…well, an apology is a good start.

“I probably should have locked the door,” Boromir offers, “but I was in a bit of a hurry to get all the orc blood off.”

Strider nods understandingly. “It sticks like glue,” he agrees, then pushes himself off the ground and stands. He scrubs a hand awkwardly through his hair, and Boromir hides a grin: Strider so obviously never quite knows what to do with her and Faramir, but he tries so hard.

“Are you going to make me stop training?” she asks at last, because that’s what really matters. Strider looks shocked.

“Of course not!” he says, and Boromir feels her shoulders untense. “You’re a natural – probably be better than I am in a few years. Why should I try to stop you?”

“Well, I’m a girl.”

Strider shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter, Boromir. Well, aside from me kicking myself from here to Andrast for not noticing, and me a Ranger trained to observe!”

Boromir laughs, and Strider reaches out to put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You are one of the best warriors I have ever seen,” he tells her softly, “and whether you are the son or the daughter of Finduilas is of no concern to me. I will not take your sword from you, Boromir.” He pauses, then smiles a little. “And I will tell none of the Rohirrim of your secret without your let and leave. If you wish to remain the son of Finduilas, that is all they will ever know from me.”

Boromir grins and throws her arms around Strider in a sudden hug. He tenses, and pats her gingerly on the back, and she pulls away laughing and goes to finish her bath. She does not trust easily, does Boromir daughter of Finduilas, but she knows that if Strider of the Dunedain has made a promise, he will keep it, and she is safe as houses.

That night the Rohirrim toast Finduilas’ son at dinner, and Strider leads the cheering, and Boromir sits beaming beside her brother and knows that she will be a warrior forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a reminder, I'm going out of town, so there'll be no Sunday or Monday chapters and I'll be slow replying to comments.


	21. Arwen In Rivendell

Arwen is glad to be back in Rivendell. It is good to see her father and brothers again, good to walk familiar hallways, good to spend time with people she understands. She is happy to no longer wear a concealing hood lest people notice her race or gender.

But.

She misses Aragorn terribly. She misses the long talks over the campfire, and his occasional really rather awful jokes, and the way he always tried so very hard to make sure everyone around him was happy and healthy and well-fed and then Arwen had to sit on him and make him eat. She misses his singing, which was quite good, and the way he always made sure his horse was tethered next to the best grass around. She misses his determination to make his country a better place, with or without the support of his people, and his quiet horror at the idea that women are not men’s equals. She misses his earnest and unflagging respect for her, which remained even after he’d seen her filthy and cranky after three days without sleep while traveling through a swamp. She misses his _cooking_ , which is just silly, but he likes to cook and even when they were in the middle of nowhere he’d pull some herbs out of his pack and make a rabbit stew which actually tasted _good_ , which is a minor miracle on the road. She even misses his rather hilariously obvious pining at her, which lessened over their travels but never quite went away.

And though Rivendell makes much more sense than Gondor does – elves are _vastly_ more practical – there was a certain urgency, a sense of wonder and desperation and glory, to the villages of Men, and Arwen finds she rather misses it. Everything in Rivendell is very predictable; everyone knows what is going to happen, because it has happened so often before. _Of course_ Lord Elrond will be calm and know exactly what to do; _naturally_ Elladan and Elrohir will cause problems. Once in a while a visit from Prince Bilbo will change the routine a little, or Gilraen will drag in a wounded Ranger to be patched up, but for the most part Rivendell is Rivendell, eternal and unchanging. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

Arwen…might not fit anymore. She keeps thinking that maybe there’s something for her to do, some villager to heal or new song to learn, but the songs of the elves have been written for centuries and she know them all already, and the healers in the infirmary are both underworked and very competent. They don’t need any help.

It takes her a few months to be able to put a name to her discomfort, but she does eventually: she is not _needed_ in Rivendell. Oh, she is wanted; her father and brothers are glad to have her there, and enjoy her tales of traveling in the lands of Men, and everyone she sees greets her with a smile and a comment on how good it is to see her home again. But she has stood between men and death, on the battlefield and beside the sickbed; she has counseled a king-to-be and learned the roads of a country vaster than Rivendell by far.

Rivendell is no longer enough.

It takes Arwen nearly a year to come to terms with this. She cannot speak of her feelings to anyone, of course – her father would be hurt, and if she spoke to anyone else, it would get back to him soon enough. Eventually she thinks she will go mad if she cannot talk to someone, and with her father’s permission, heads with all speed to Lorien. Grandmother Galadriel always has wise counsel.

*

Galadriel listens to her granddaughter’s tale, nodding in all the right places and making comforting noises when Arwen gets emotional. It’s not as though she hasn’t seen this before, after all. Celebrian was a wreck for _decades_ before she finally admitted to herself that she was in love with Elrond. Galadriel herself had some serious soul-searching to do before she married Celeborn. It seems to run in the family.

When Arwen finishes her tale, Galadriel gathers her granddaughter into her arms and sighs. “You’re in love,” she says. “With young Aragorn, and with the lands of Men.”

Arwen nods against Galadriel’s shoulder. “I had gathered as much, Grandmother, from the fact that I keep turning around to say something to Aragorn and being very surprised that he is not there.” She takes a deep breath and pulls away. “It will break my father’s heart if I go and marry a Man.”

Galadriel nods. “Yes, dear, but it will break his heart _whoever_ you marry. Member of the Fellowship or no, you are still the daughter whose knees he bandaged a thousand years and more ago.”

“No,” says Arwen. “No, Grandmother, I am not. I may be young for our people, but I am a woman grown. I have faced my death and that I yet live is an accident of fate.” She stands decisively. “I love Aragorn son of Gilraen, I choose him above all others to be my partner forever if he will have me. Neither you nor my father may gainsay my choice, Grandmother, and I have made it.”

Galadriel rises, beaming. “ _Good_ , granddaughter,” she says. “You will need that steel. You are the daughter and granddaughter of kings and queens, your blood is noble and your heart is true. Go and be a queen of Men beside your honorable king, and my blessings go with you.”

Arwen laughs, and goes.

*

Not to Minas Tirith, of course – Ecthelion is yet the Steward there, and she will hear when Aragorn ascends his throne. She can do him little good in Rohan, and great harm. No, she goes home to Rivendell.

The first thing she does is speak to her father, and there is a spark in her eyes and a tilt to her head that makes her father sigh and stifle his own objections to the match and give his blessing, because what else can you say to Arwen of the Healing Hands when she has made a decision?

The second thing she does is find Gilraen and ask her blessing, and Gilraen gives it laughing, and tells Arwen tales of young Aragorn pining after her like a puppy, of the child Estel running wild through the halls of Rivendell and wrecking havoc on the careful peace of the Last Homely House, and Arwen laughs with her and loves him more.

She goes to Gilraen most days after that, asking questions about Gondor and Men and the Dunedain, learning as much as she can from far away about the customs of the country that, if all goes well, will one day also be hers. Gilraen teaches her willingly, and the lessons are quite pleasant, really; their friendship from the Fellowship has never died, though there’s a little awkwardness now that Arwen has admitted her love for Gilraen’s son.

It is, Arwen knows, a little odd to be planning her marriage to a man who has not even told her he loves her, but better to be prepared to be a queen and never be one, than become a queen and not be prepared.


	22. Revelations

Boromir tells Eowyn first. It is several months after Strider found her out, and Boromir has been waiting for _some_ sort of consequence: for Strider to start treating her differently, or calling her ‘daughter of Finduilas,’ or make her start learning women’s work. But Strider does none of that. He treats her the same way he always has, with slight awkwardness and an eager willingness to teach her anything she wants to learn. He does not pull his blows when they practice together, or attempt to shield her when they ride patrols – or, at least, no more than he did before, when he thought she was a boy.

So maybe this is real, Boromir dares to think, and she decides that if anyone will understand wanting to be a warrior badly enough to hide your true gender, it’s probably Eowyn, who wants more than anything to be a shieldmaiden.

It’s an odd conversation. Boromir has never actually outright _told_ anyone about this, not after that first incredulous conversation with Faramir and Parsha, and so she doesn’t quite know where to start. Eventually, she shrugs to herself and decides that bluntness is better than failing at subtlety, and hunts Eowyn down in the evening while Eowyn is sitting quietly honing her sword.

She sits down across from Eowyn, takes a deep breath, and says, “There’s something I’ve been hiding from you.”

Eowyn looks up curiously. “Just from me, or from all of us?”

“Everyone except Faramir,” Boromir admits. “And Strider found out by accident a while back.”

Eowyn looks quite eager now. “What is it? I’ll keep your secret, I promise.”

It’s hard to say, these words that Boromir has always assumed would take her sword from her, but she says it anyhow. “I’m a girl.”

Eowyn’s jaw drops. “You’re _what_?”

“A girl,” says Boromir again. “In Minas Tirith, girls can’t learn to fight, so I pretended to be a boy.” It’s not the whole truth, and it’s glossing over the whole mess with Denethor, but it’s true enough.

Eowyn boggles for a moment longer, then puts her sword down and flings herself across to hug Boromir. “They wouldn’t let you fight?” she asks, horrified. “Of course you had to pretend, then, you’re a wonderful fighter! I couldn’t bear it if they told me I had to give up my sword.” She pulls away and grins at Boromir. “And now it’ll be like I have a shield sister!”

Boromir laughs. “I’m not going to be any good at girl talk, Eowyn.”

“Girl talk, phaw,” Eowyn returns. “I just mean it’ll be nice to have another girl to fight beside. And with two of us, we can take over the eastern bathhouse; it’s no good heating it up just for one!”

So that is Eowyn told, and she stays quiet about it around other people, but it’s nice, on occasion, to have someone to talk to who understands about breastbands and monthlies and how much of a hassle they are.

That went well, thinks Boromir.

*

She tells Theodred next. He gawps at her a little while, then nods, and smiles, and promises solemnly to keep her secret. She expected nothing else. Theodred is a somber, honorable fellow, and will be a good king someday. She thanks him and they turn again to sparring.

*

Eomer, though…Eomer is harder to tell. Because it is Eomer, these past few years, whose fine broad shoulders she has admired, Eomer whose blond hair she has on occasion desired to run her fingers through, Eomer whose skill in battle draws her eye.

Eomer who could wound her worst of all, if he reacts badly to the truth of her gender.

So she dithers for a while, whether to keep her secret from this final of her friends; but Boromir does not dither well. It makes her cranky, and distracts her during practice.

It takes three days, in the end, for her to make up her mind; and then she corners Eomer after a practice bout and leads him outside to a quiet spot where they will not be interrupted. He follows willingly enough; his friend has been acting oddly these past few days, and if this is the reason, he wants to learn it.

Boromir paces for a moment, quick angry strides which make Eomer rather nervous, and then turns to face him fully, expression full of determination and something like fear. “I’m female,” she tells him, blunt as ever.

Eomer sits down rather abruptly on the ground. He stares up at her wide-eyed for a long moment, then says, faintly, “You’re _what_?”

“A girl,” says Boromir with some irritation.

Eomer considers this for several minutes. Then, finally, he says, “Oh. _Good_.”

There are many reactions Boromir has anticipated, but this is not one of them. “Good?”

Eomer blushes quite red. “Well, I…you’re so…um.” He stops, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “You’re wonderful and I think I’ve fallen in love with you but you were a boy and I didn’t know how to…Rohirrim don’t…but if you’re a girl it’s not a problem anymore. I mean, unless you’re offended, in which case please wait to beat me up until after the banquet tomorrow night.”

Boromir takes a few minutes to parse that rather tangled explanation. Then, very very slowly, she grins, and sits down next to the still-blushing Eomer.

“In love with me, hm?” she says softly. “You’d better not start treating me like some delicate court lady.”

Eomer shakes his head vigorously. “I’m not _stupid_ ,” he replies. “Boy or girl, you’re still one of the best warriors around. I’d rather have you at my back than half the Rohirrim.”

“That may be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Boromir says slowly, and then she leans back against the tree, shoulder against Eomer’s, and sighs in relief.

Eomer relaxes, and shifts a little closer, and they sit there together watching the clouds until Strider comes out to find them for dinner.


	23. Relationships

Boromir has absolutely no idea how to do…whatever this might be with Eomer. She thinks he’s cute, and smart, and quite a good warrior; she likes spending time with him and talking to him and just sitting and watching the world with him; but surely that is not all there is to it? The ballads speak of love as some great and terrible thing which sweeps one up and destroys one, and Boromir feels neither swept up nor destroyed. She just…enjoys Eomer’s company. A lot.

To add to her confusion, she’s really not sure who to ask about it. Oh, she could ask Strider, but given how _utterly_ awkward he was when she hugged him, she’s pretty sure his reaction would be some combination of flailing and odd stories about Prince Bilbo of Belegost, who apparently has the best marriage ever as far as Strider is concerned. (Boromir is only half convinced that Prince Bilbo is _real_ , because really: a halfling married to a dwarf, who loves his husband so much that he turned down the Ring of Sauron itself for him? Even leaving aside the fact that both Prince Bilbo and his husband are _male_ , which is just…odd…well, the whole story is improbable.)

Faramir, of course, is out of the question – or so Boromir thinks, until the day he turns up with suspicious red marks on his neck and a broad and worrisome grin. It takes Boromir hours to work up the courage to ask him what on _earth_ is going on, and the answer she gets is that same terrifying grin, a dreamy sigh, and, “Eowyn’s really _wonderful_ , isn’t she?”

…Which is a whole different problem, and Boromir puts her head in her hands and tries to deal with the fact that her little brother is apparently courting someone (she refuses to think about the red marks, which are shaped suspiciously like teeth, nope, not thinking about that), and doing so quite successfully too. She gives Faramir a firm lecture – or what she _hopes_ is a firm lecture – on not doing anything to bring shame upon their mother’s name, and incidentally being careful about courting the niece of the prince of Rohan, Valar help them all, but Faramir just smiles and smiles and wanders off towards the practice courts with that infuriating look on his face. Boromir goes to find Strider, because if anything calls for a man’s advice it’s _got_ to be this, and Strider gets this _look_ of terror and bewilderment and promises to talk to Faramir.

Boromir’s not holding out any hope that that will go well, but at least the whole debacle takes her mind off of Eomer for a little while.

Of course, she goes to talk to Eomer about their respective siblings, because whatever else is happening he’s _still_ her best friend, and Eomer puts his head in his hands and sighs heavily. “You know how Eowyn is,” he says plaintively. “It’s not as though I could forbid her – she wouldn’t listen!”

“But Faramir doesn’t know what he’s getting _into_ ,” Boromir protests.

Eomer opens his mouth to speak, then pauses and breaks into sudden laughter. Boromir raises an eyebrow at him. “That’s _my_ line,” he manages to gasp out. “Your brother’s seducing my little sister!”

Boromir can’t help laughing, though it isn’t really funny. But Faramir _is_ such an innocent, and Eowyn _is_ strong-willed and runs a little roughshod over people, and, “It’s like one of those horrible ballads that Theodyra likes to listen to,” she says, and breaks into giggles again, “only the wrong way round!”

Which doesn’t solve anything, but it’s good to be able to laugh about it.

Theodred just flings his hands in the air and declares he’ll have nothing to do with the whole problem, as it’s just going to blow up in his face _whatever_ he does, which is fair, Boromir decides, and eventually she and Eomer just kind of…let it go, and hope that when the whole thing goes pear-shaped that they’ll be able to pick up the pieces. Faramir is happy, and Eowyn is happy, and what are they supposed to do, tell their beloved little siblings that what makes them happy is not allowed for some stupid reason?

Which _still_ leaves Boromir confused about her relationship with Eomer, Valar take it.

*

It takes her a few weeks to figure out what Eomer’s up to. The first week, he brings her a dagger from an orc he killed on patrol while she wasn’t there. It’s good workmanship and a fine trophy, and Boromir puts it in her chest with her other small treasures and thanks him for it.

The second week he cleans all her weapons for her, without her even asking, and she finds them gleaming and polished and razor-edged when she goes to prepare them for patrol. It’s much appreciated, and she appreciates it even more when he takes them from her when she returns and cleans them again, bringing them to her in the morning with a smile and waving off her thanks.

The third week, when he saves her a seat beside him and loads her plate with delicacies of which she is particularly fond – and even gives her a honeycake he snuck from the kitchens, without giving one to Eowyn or Theodred or Faramir – she begins to think that _something_ is going on. This is not normal behavior for Eomer.

The fourth week he brings her a fine set of leather arm-guards, inlaid with bronze in intricate designs, and she blinks at them for a minute – expensive, beautiful things that they are, far nicer than her own utilitarian guards – and then looks up at him and says, incredulously, “Are you _courting_ me?”

“Well, yes,” Eomer replies rather sheepishly. “I didn’t know if you’d like flowers, and you always say my singing sounds like a dying sheep, so I thought maybe, well, you’d like weapons and armor better.”

Boromir considers this carefully for a long minute, then takes the arm-guards out of his hands and puts them gently on her armor rack, grabs Eomer by the collar, drags him into her room, and does her best to kiss him senseless. As she’s not _entirely_ sure what she’s doing, it’s not an unqualified success, but they both enjoy figuring it all out, so that’s all right.

Some time later, a rather mussed Eomer pulls away from their ninth or tenth kiss and says, a little smugly, “I’ll take that to mean you approve of my courting you, then?”

Boromir laughs and drags him back in for another kiss. “Yes,” she says when she lets him go. “Yes, I approve. But don’t think this means I’ll go easy on you in the practice courts.”

“You wouldn’t be Boromir the Fierce if you did,” Eomer says placidly, “and I would not love you half so much if you were not.”

That’s worth another kiss, Boromir decides, and gives him one.

…Well, several.

…They do make it to dinner eventually, and Boromir glares at Faramir when he giggles at her mussed hair, and ignores the red marks on Faramir’s neck (seriously, she does _not_ want to know), and sits with her leg touching Eomer’s and cannot hide her smile.


	24. Revelation and Choice

Boromir is twenty-one when word comes from Minas Tirith that Steward Ecthelion’s health is waning. Initially, this doesn’t mean much to her: yes, she and Faramir might _technically_ be the heirs to the Stewardship, depending on how thoroughly Ecthelion managed to disown his son, but Boromir isn’t interested in trying to run a city full of people who hate her, and Faramir is happy here in Rohan with Eowyn. The nobles of Minas Tirith can figure out the succession themselves, and if they all assassinate each other, so much the better, as far as Boromir is concerned.

The next day, however, Strider pulls her and Faramir aside, finds a quiet place far from anyone else, and sits them down with a solemn look on his face quite unlike his normal expression. Boromir and Faramir sit shoulder-to-shoulder, as somber as their guardian. This must be important, Boromir knows – Strider almost never interferes in their routine.

Strider takes a deep breath. “You know, of course, that Strider is a use-name,” he begins, and Boromir and Faramir nod. No one _actually_ names a child ‘strider.’ Strider nods. “My true name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn and Gilraen, heir of Isildur,” he says bluntly, and Boromir’s jaw nearly hits the floor. Beside her, Faramir makes a faint noise of astonishment.

Strider… _Aragorn_ shrugs, a little sheepishly. “I did not want to cause unnecessary upheaval,” he explains, “so I have waited for Ecthelion to grow old, and when he dies I will take up my throne. Since Ecthelion is ill, I will go now to Minas Tirith and make my claim.” He takes a deep breath. “You are grown now, fine warriors in your own rights, and though I am your guardian you need no guarding anymore. If you wish to accompany me to Minas Tirith, I will name you my bodyguards, my trusted right and left hand, and when I take my throne you will stand beside me in places of honor. But if you wish to remain here, with those you love, as warriors of the Rohirrim, I will give you my blessing and any aid I can. I leave the decision entirely in your hands.”

He bows a little, turns, and walks away out of easy earshot, to let them discuss the matter without his hearing.

Boromir turns to her little brother, who looks a little like someone has slapped him with a fish. Boromir sympathizes: she _feels_ like she’s been slapped with a fish. Strider, the true king of Gondor? Strider, their liege lord?

Boromir wants, for one blazing moment, to tell Strider to go to Minas Tirith by his own dratted self and overthrow a thousand years of Stewardship without her help. She wants to stay in Rohan and marry Eomer and patrol for orcs, and grow old to be the Morwen Steelsheen of her generation, and spar with Eowyn every day for the rest of her life.

But there are other considerations. It is by no means assured that she would be _allowed_ to marry Eomer, for one. Theoden likes her well enough, now that he has been assured of her femininity, but Thengel is not fond of her, and the royal family needs the king’s grace to wed. Thengel is not likely to give his blessing to a nameless nobody, and still less to disgraced Denethor’s mannish daughter. The bodyguard of a king, however…such a woman would be a better match for a prince’s cousin.

And again, Boromir is of the line of the Stewards of Gondor, who swore an oath so many years ago. Strider is her liege lord, her true king, and she owes him her fealty. That her father betrayed that oath does not negate it; rather, she is _more_ obliged to honor it so as to prove that the line of Stewards has not lost all honor. Boromir doesn’t really care about redeeming her father’s reputation, but if her refusal to follow Strider smirched her _mother’s_ name…well, Finduilas of Dol Amroth was a faithful wife and an honorable woman, and Boromir will cheerfully kill anyone who says otherwise.

And finally, Boromir owes Strider a great debt. He did not have to spend five years caring for a pair of traumatized, secretive orphans; he could have given them money or patronage, or simply dumped them in Rohan, and gone on with his life. Instead, he has stayed in Rohan with them, trained them in all the skills of the Dunedain, practiced with them and protected them, and in all ways done his best to be…not a father, perhaps, but an uncle, and a good one. It was Strider’s blunt acceptance of her gender, his bafflement that anyone would think a woman could not be a warrior, which gave her the courage to reveal her true self to her friends. It was Strider’s interference which kept her brother alive, and gave him a true home for the first time; it was his acceptance and support of Faramir which truly let the boy thrive and blossom into a good man.

Boromir would follow Strider to the ends of the earth for the debt she owes him. To Minas Tirith, to watch the lords who spit upon her humbled before the true king? That journey will be no hardship at all.

Her decision made, she turns to Faramir, who has a thoughtful look on his face. He raises an eyebrow at her. She smiles. “I am following Strider, brother. But you need not. You have a good life here – Eowyn adores you, and none will gainsay her. You can stay in Rohan, if that pleases you.”

Faramir shakes his head, frowning. “Brother – _sister_. We were dying in Minas Tirith, I knew it then and know it now. How many men would take a pair of dying orphans in for the sake of a vow given to a woman long dead by a woman far away? All my current happiness I owe to him, and though our father may have betrayed our blood, _I_ am no oathbreaker. He is our king, sister. Let us follow him, and serve him well.”

Boromir hugs her little brother, prouder of him than she has been in a long time. A brave boy, her brother, brave and clever and honorable for all his occasional silliness. She tells him so, and ruffles his hair until he laughs aloud and squirms away, and then they stand together and go to find their king and swear their fealty, for now and for aye, to Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen, true king of Gondor.

*

Theoden, a wise man indeed, does not ask questions when Strider and Boromir and Faramir make their farewells. Eomer and Eowyn are less phlegmatic, but Boromir explains that Strider has given them a chance to make names for themselves, a chance to make themselves worthy of the niece and nephew of the prince of Rohan, and that is hard to argue with.

In the end, they leave with many protestations of fidelity, and promises to write often; and if Boromir knows Eowyn, which she does, Theoden and his three children will be coming to Minas Tirith before too long. Hopefully Eowyn will be willing to wait until after Strider has revealed his true heritage and taken his throne, because Boromir rather thinks she and Faramir are going to be a little busy until everything settles down again.

If nothing else, there are certainly those among the nobles who might think that an inconvenient king might be easily gotten rid of. Boromir is going to take _great pride_ in proving them very, very wrong.


	25. Minas Tirith Again

Aragorn’s mother’s name is enough to get him an audience with Steward Ecthelion, him and his two bodyguards. Boromir and Faramir have taken to their new duties with slightly worrisome enthusiasm, wearing matching clothing and standing one to each side of him and slightly behind. They are so clearly related, for all that Boromir is broader of shoulder, and Aragorn is painfully proud of them. He knows he was not the most skilled caretaker in the world, but apparently he was good enough that these proud, clever, bold young people are willing to follow him. It is a humbling thought.

Ecthelion is not what you’d call impressed that the son of Lady Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer has appeared to ask for a private audience twenty years after the whole debacle with the Nazgul and the traitor son, but he grants the audience nonetheless. It would be unseemly to do otherwise, after all. Aragorn has put some thought into how he wants this audience to go, but honestly, he’s not really practiced at flowery speeches, and Prince Bilbo always said that talking around the point is only good for refusing to do things – if you really want something done, just say it.

Ecthelion, seated at the foot of the great empty throne, says, “And what does the son of Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer bring before me?”

Aragorn draws himself up, and bows a very shallow bow, and replies, “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen, heir of Isildur, and I am here to uphold my claim to Gondor’s throne.”

Ecthelion’s utterly baffled expression is actually rather funny, but Aragorn keeps his own face straight and somber with some effort. It does not do to laugh at such a juncture, after all. After a long minute, Ecthelion says, “I will of course need proof of this assertion.” He gives Aragorn no title, Aragorn notices; but that is only to be expected.

“My mother told me that you have within your citadel a palantir of ancient Gondor, which can only be controlled by the blood of Isildur,” Aragorn offers. “I will demonstrate my mastery of the stone, if that will content you as to the validity of my claim.”

Ecthelion winces. Aragorn knows it is cruel to offer to prove his credentials with the same implement which drove Ecthelion’s son mad, but it is not as though the Dunedain keep physical records of their bloodlines – and in any event, such records could be faked. The only ways Aragorn can think of to prove his claim to the throne are the palantir and the Paths of the Dead, and frankly, he’s pretty sure Ecthelion would prefer that Aragorn not show up with an army of angry ghosts behind him. If nothing else, that’s the sort of thing which really looks like a hostile takeover attempt.

But Ecthelion has not been Steward of Gondor for so many years without learning how to do hard things when it’s necessary, and he rings the bell beside him for attendants. “The palantir is sealed away,” he explains. “I will have it brought to us. In the meanwhile, do excuse me – I have other petitions to hear.”

Aragorn gives way gracefully. If this is how Ecthelion needs to save face, by making the future king cool his heels in a waiting room, well, Aragorn is not king yet. It costs him nothing to wait a few minutes, to give the Steward a little of his pride back. Boromir and Faramir both bristle a little once they are in a private room – they have been on edge since they reached the city, and the palace is not helping matters. Nor is Ecthelion’s rudeness. It’s kind of sweet, really, that they’re so protective of him. Of course, the fact that the man being so rude to him is the grandfather who abandoned them, who has not recognized them even now, probably has something to do with that.

*

The palantir looks like a dull glass globe in the hands of the attendant who brings it up from the newly-reopened vaults, and its surface does not waver as Ecthelion takes it into his own frail hands. Ecthelion looks at the thing with something very like loathing in his gaze, and holds it out towards Aragorn with an abrupt motion.

“Here,” he says, and Aragorn takes the palantir gently.

The dull surface turns to shining black, and then, in the depths of the globe, Minas Tirith appears, shining white against the wide plains. The image in the globe expands, showing the White Mountains and the vast green rolling hills of southern Gondor, swooping south and west towards Andrast, until all of Gondor is laid out within the little glass ball, sitting safely in Aragorn’s hands.

Slowly, painfully, Ecthelion kneels, and the attendants behind him drop to their knees as well. Boromir and Faramir step away and drop to one knee apiece, ready to stand and defend their lord if necessary, and Aragorn looks up from his kingdom to his people, and smiles.

“My lord king,” Ecthelion says finally. “Welcome home.”

*

The announcement goes as well as Aragorn could expect. Ecthelion declares that he will be making a declaration regarding the succession, and three days later the better part of the population of Minas Tirith is gathered in and around the largest square in the city. Ecthelion goes first, declaiming in a surprisingly loud voice for a mortal in his eighties that the succession is assured, that the one who will rule Gondor after him is decided.

And then Aragorn steps out on the balcony in the black and silver of the Guard (a uniform which does not lend itself to stealth), bare-headed for now, Boromir and Faramir a step behind him in their own conspicuous uniforms, the palantir of the city in his hands, and Ecthelion cries in that startlingly large voice, “Kneel before Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, King of Gondor to be!”

The noise of the crowd is like a wave, breaking against the balcony where Aragorn stands with an almost physical shock, and he steps forward to the very edge of the balcony with the palantir in one hand and raises the other, greeting his people properly for the first time.

They kneel. The motion goes through the crowd, one group after another dropping to the flagstones, and he can see nobles and merchants and peasants all staring up at him, the same question in all their eyes: and what sort of a king will Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, be? Aragorn can sympathize.

“My people,” he says when the murmurs of disbelief and wonder have died away, “I pledge myself to you, to care for you and protect you in good times and in bad.” There are more murmurs – these are not precisely the first words anyone expects from a long-lost king. “While Steward Ecthelion yet lives, I will not take my throne; instead, I will learn the ways of my kingdom to be under his wise tutelage.” People are glancing at each other now; this is hardly the way of a conquering hero. Aragorn does not want to conquer. These are his people, and he comes in peace. “Until I take my throne, therefore, I ask that you remain as you have always been, the faithful subjects of Gondor and its Stewards.” He steps backwards, and Ecthelion makes some closing remark, but Aragorn is not listening to him: he is trying very hard to meet the eyes of every one of the people staring at him, one at a time. Men and women, old and young, rich and poor: they are his people, every one, and he will give his life to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be no chapter on Monday, sorry! Real life interferes.


	26. Assassins

Boromir is, frankly, a little surprised it takes an entire week for someone to send assassins after Aragorn. She’d been betting on closer to three days. From the tales Parsha told her, years ago, about the infighting and backbiting and really rather worrying blood feuds between the nobles of Minas Tirith, Boromir has gathered that there are going to be a lot of people who really aren’t that happy that the king has returned. He might look unkindly on their customary indulgences, after all.

Aragorn, who is more idealistic than anyone really ought to be, in Boromir’s considered opinion, listens to her concerns patiently and nods and does not hire any more bodyguards. Boromir finds this both frustrating and terrifying: she is _not_ superhuman, she cannot be beside her king at every moment, and someone is _going_ to try to kill him, and what if she’s not there?

As it happens, the assassin that actually turns up is rather incompetent and decides to attack during a party, while Boromir and Faramir are _literally_ less than a step away from Aragorn and already on edge. He approaches from Faramir’s side, Faramir takes him down with ease, and Boromir gets Aragorn into a corner where she can stand protectively in front of him, and then the Guards arrive, and it’s all a little anticlimactic really.

Aragorn is, of course, appalled and shocked by the whole thing. Apparently Belegost and Rivendell and all the other oddly-named places he goes on about don’t have this sort of problem. Thankfully, his state of appalled shock means that when Ecthelion and Boromir and Faramir all insist that he hire _more bodyguards dammit_ , he agrees without too much argument. Ecthelion recommends Captain Hallas of the Guard as a useful resource, and Boromir sends a servant to set up a meeting as soon as possible, or sooner.

*

Mardi is not expecting her father to show up at Rian’s yarn shop in the middle of the day. Usually he’s not home till late, busy with paperwork and training schedules and all the other minutia of running the City Guard. Today, though, he pokes his head in the door and gestures for Mardi to follow him. She puts her carding and her book aside and does so, waving to Rian as she leaves. It’s not as though Rian really needs her around; putting off the carding a few more hours won’t hurt anything.

Hallas doesn’t say anything during the walk back to the house, and he gets them both glasses of water and sits at the dining room table without a word. Mardi takes her glass and sits across from him, really rather worried now. Finally he takes a deep breath.

“This morning I met with Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” he begins. Mardi leans forward: like everyone in the city, she is eager to know more about the future king. “Last night, an assassin attempted to kill him, and though his bodyguards defended him, he now acknowledges the need for more than two of them.” Mardi nods. She has seen the bodyguards, of course, matching brothers in their shining uniforms, a step behind their lord, grim-faced and well-armed. They are clearly competent, but a king needs more than two bodyguards.

“Steward Ecthelion recommended me to Aragorn, and Aragorn…asked me who might be a suitable candidate. There are several in the Guard who might suit, and I told him so, but I also asked him how he felt about women warriors.” Hallas takes a deep breath, and Mardi bites the inside of her cheek so she will not scream with the tension.

“He said he would be glad to interview you, and that where he was raised, women are as much warriors as men. You have an interview tomorrow, if you want it.” Hallas reaches across the table to touch Mardi’s hand gently. “It’s not the City Guard, daughter, but it’s the best chance I can see for you.”

Mardi is in shock. The future _king_ wants to interview her for his bodyguard? She knows she’s good enough – she ought to be, as much as she trains – but…well. Slowly, she smiles back at her father.

“Then tomorrow I will be at the palace bright and early, I suppose!” she says, and her father beams and comes around the table to hug her tightly.

*

Aragorn likes most of the men who line up to be interviewed, some more than others, but most of them fail the most important question: will you fight alongside women? More than half of them laugh aloud at the very thought, and Aragorn scratches their names off of the list immediately. A few tell him, patronizingly, that women belong in the home, that they do not have the wherewithal to stand and fight, and Aragorn scratches their names off, too, and hopes that Boromir will be able to keep her temper. Two or three shrug and admit that they’re perfectly willing to fight alongside women but that the issue has never come up, and Aragorn decides that they are tentatively acceptable.

And the last candidate, just when Aragorn is starting to despair of his city, is a broad-shouldered, sword-callused woman of middle years who introduces herself as Mardi, daughter of Hallas. Aragorn asks the relevant questions and hires her on the spot.

*

Mardi is kind of walking on air as she returns home to gather her possessions. It’s not the City Guard, not her great dream, but as far as booby prizes go, being bodyguard to the first king of Gondor in a thousand years isn’t really a _bad_ reward for twenty years of training and dreaming. The three men Aragorn has also hired are all members of the Guard that she knows well, who clapped her on the back when she came out of the interview triumphant and told her that they’d be glad to work with her. The future king himself had seemed _overjoyed_ to find a woman warrior in Gondor. That has to be a good sign, right?

Her family celebrates with her over dinner, raising glasses of good wine to her good fortune and predicting that she will go far. Rian teases her about the difficulty of finding someone to card wool on such short notice and her father jokes that the men at her normal training ground will miss her and her mother frets about whether the palace will be too cold and Mardi will need heavy cloaks, and it’s the happiest Mardi has been in years.

The next day she presents herself at the palace, and Boromir, the head of Aragorn’s bodyguard, walks her to her rooms and shows her the training ground and lays out the schedules. It’s all very businesslike. Then Boromir takes a deep breath and says, “Last thing. The reason Aragorn was so intent on finding men who can work with women wasn’t just you. I’m a woman, too.”

Mardi’s jaw drops. The head of the future king’s bodyguard, a woman? _Another_ woman, a woman who dresses like a man and has broad shoulders like Mardi’s and the calluses that come from years with a sword in her hands and the scars of real battle upon her arms. A woman who carries herself like a blooded warrior, a veteran who _knows_ she is as good as she acts.

Mardi smiles at Boromir, broad and happy, and says, “It will be an honor to fight beside you,” and Boromir smiles back.


	27. Thengel

Aragorn is actually starting to think that the transition from Steward to the returned king won’t be too strained or violent (assassination attempt notwithstanding). In retrospect, he thinks, standing on the wall and watching the Rohirrim ride towards Minas Tirith in what is not – quite – battle formation, that was a _stupid_ assumption. Beside him, Boromir whistles quietly between her teeth, and Faramir mutters something that would be an obscenity if Faramir ever actually swore.

Thengel has never liked Aragorn. He was not shy about opining that Strider was an upstart nobody of a Ranger who oughtn’t have been hanging around the children and grandchildren of kings, and Aragorn is pretty sure that Thengel wasn’t terribly happy to hear that the upstart nobody Ranger has made a strong claim to the throne of Gondor. Still, not being terribly happy doesn’t _necessarily_ lead into arriving at the capital of Gondor with what looks rather a lot like an invasion threat. And if there’s one thing Aragorn does not want to do, it’s start off his reign with a pointless war.

So when Thengel reins in his horse in front of the main gates of Minas Tirith, Aragorn calls down with as much cheer as he can manage, “Hail, King of Rohan. You are a bit early for my coronation!”

Thengel smiles back, but it’s not a pleasant expression, and Theoden, half a horse-length behind his father, is making a face which is probably meant to convey a warning. Not that Aragorn really needs more warning that this is a _bad_ situation, but it’s good to know that Theoden is still a friend, regardless of Thengel’s opinion. Thengel calls back, “Indeed, I am here for a coronation, but I do not think it will be yours.”

…Well, that’s plain enough. Aragorn lets Ecthelion step forward and negotiate the entrance of Thengel and Theoden and a selection of Rohirrim into the city, and ponders his options. Traditionally, this sort of thing is settled by single combat or civil war or other such bloody expedients, and Aragorn is not really happy about any of those options.

In the end, there’s only one thing he can think of which minimizes bloodshed and will almost certainly end with Thengel having to recognize him as the true king of Gondor – with the useful side effect of rendering anyone _else’s_ claim to the throne preemptively moot. Admittedly there’s an off-chance that it will all end with Aragorn horribly dead, but that’s a normal consequence of being a king anyhow, so Aragorn doesn’t worry about it.

Instead, he waits until he and Thengel are in the great hall, surrounded by people, and presents his plan.

“Since neither of us will resign our claim to the throne,” he declares, “I propose a test. It is known that in the White Mountains there is a cave wherein the Army of the Dead, who failed my ancestor, are interred; and only the true heir to the throne of Gondor may wake them safely. All others who enter that cave are slain.”

There are murmurs of agreement: the Paths of the Dead are relatively common knowledge.

“I therefore propose,” Aragorn continues, “that King Thengel and I, with whatever entourages we desire, go together to the Paths of the Dead, and there I will undertake to wake the ghosts. Should I fail, and die in the attempt, it will be proof that I am not the heir to the throne; but should I succeed, and bring the Army of the Dead to Minas Tirith, King Thengel will admit my legitimacy and return again to Rohan.”

It’s a good test, Aragorn thinks. _He_ knows he’s the heir to the throne – the palantir wakes in his hands, after all – and so is fairly confident that the Dead will rise at his command; but _Thengel_ will probably think that Aragorn will die in the Paths of the Dead and leave the way to the throne clear; and if Aragorn _does_ prove his credentials, then Thengel will not lose too much face when he steps aside for a man who can _raise the dead_.

Thengel accepts the test, of course. It’s not the sort of thing he can really refuse, not when it appears, on the surface at least, to be an innovative form of suicide for Aragorn, which will leave the throne open for Thengel’s taking. By the end of the evening, they have hashed out the sizes of their respective entourages, and servants are pulling together traveling packs and provisions and all the various things which a king of Gondor apparently requires to go on a journey. Aragorn does not mention that he traveled throughout Gondor for ten years with three packs, a sword, a bow, and a very patient horse. It seems rude, somehow.

*

Boromir actually gets a few moments alone with Theoden, while Mardi and Faramir are watching Aragorn’s back and Aragorn and Thengel are posturing at each other – well, Thengel is posturing, Aragorn is just being inimitably _Aragorn_ , all nobility – to ask how Eomer and Eowyn are doing.

Pining a little, Theoden tells her – not enough for most people to notice, they’re both good at putting on public faces, as the children of kings must be – but enough for their father to see. But they understand, now, why Boromir and Faramir and Aragorn had to leave.

“They send their love,” Theoden says, and shrugs. “And Eowyn says that she’ll beat you up for not telling her about Strider the next time she sees you.”

Boromir laughs aloud. “She can _try_ ,” she replies, and bows to Theoden and returns to her king. It is good to hear that Thengel’s idiocy has not infected his entire court.

*  
They leave the next morning, bright and early: Aragorn and Boromir and Faramir and Mardi, Thengel and Theoden and two Rohirrim. Equal numbers, to keep everything fair.

As traveling companions go, Aragorn has had better. They ride in a sort of tense silence: Thengel is too near to allow Aragorn and Theoden to converse, and speaking only to his own guards would be awkward and impolite, so the whole party rides quiet, save for the absolute necessities of agreeing on camping duties and so forth. Talking to Thengel himself would be an exercise in futility: he spends the days glowering at the trail in front of them and the nights glowering at the campfire. In spare moments he glowers at Aragorn, Boromir, and Faramir. Aragorn cannot help thinking wistfully of cheerful debate with Arwen, or singing beside the trail; of teaching Boromir and Faramir small tasks beside the fire.

Still, what must be done must be done, and Aragorn rides in silence and tries not to become gloomy. It is not what might be called an unqualified success.


	28. The Army

They are nearly to the caves of the Dead, riding along a path overlooking the broad plains of Rohan, when Thengel cries out in stark dismay. Aragorn turns to look: Thengel is pointing out into Rohan, at a broad moving band of black which can be nothing, Aragorn realizes, except an army, a veritable _horde_ of orcs.

And most of the Rohirrim are at Minas Tirith.

Thengel and Theoden swear pretty much simultaneously, and Aragorn would join them if he’d ever bothered to learn to swear. He’s known there were orcs in the White Mountains for years – where else would the occasional raiding parties have come from? – but the fact that they have chosen now to invade in force speaks of a guiding intelligence he does not like the thought of. There are still some warriors in Rohan, of course – Thengel is not a complete idiot – and Morwen Steelsheen commands them. But a few warriors may not be enough to stop that black horde.

Their eight warriors, here on the mountain, are not going to be enough _either_ – not in a million years could eight warriors defeat that many orcs, not unless they were all of Glorfindel’s stature - but Thengel reins his horse around to find the easiest path down the mountains, and Theoden and the Rohirrim follow him, as men should follow their king. Aragorn grabs Boromir’s shoulder as she tries to follow them.

“No,” he says, and she gives him a look of utter betrayal. He shakes her shoulder gently. “Think, woman! The four of us could do nothing. But another half an hour’s ride, and we will have an army greater than that by far. Thengel will not reach them so swiftly. Come.”

*

It is hard, harder than almost anything Aragorn has ever done, to ride away from Theoden towards the Paths of the Dead. It feels as though he is abandoning his friend to the orcs. He tells himself, over and over, that he is going for reinforcements, which is a proper and honorable action, that Aragorn and his three best bodyguards could do nothing but be slaughtered alongside Theoden, while Aragorn and the Army of the Dead can save Rohan entirely.

It doesn’t really help.

He thanks the Valar, as he rides, for the fact that Thengel did not bring Eomer and Eowyn along on this mad venture. If he had, Aragorn knows there would be no way in the world he could have prevented Boromir and Faramir from following their beloveds onto the battlefield. As it is, Eomer and Eowyn will doubtless be in the army of the Rohirrim, what’s left of it, and wherever it is; but with luck, Aragorn and the Dead will reach the battlefield well before the children are in any danger.

With luck, Boromir and Faramir will not see their lovers die. Aragorn doesn’t know what the consequences of that would be, but they would not be good.

*

Mardi does not like the looks of the Paths of the Dead. The entrance is a cave mouth, and though the sun is high, no light enters the cave: it is as black as the grave within, and the cold air from the heart of the earth feels like the breath of the dead. Mardi does not think of herself as a coward, but she does not want to enter that black mouth.

Boromir, beside her, breathes a soft oath. Faramir shivers visibly. But Aragorn merely sighs and dismounts, and draws his sword. “You need not follow,” he says mildly. “Should all go well, I will emerge again; there is no need for you to enter too.”

Boromir hisses under her breath, and then swings down off her horse with a grunt. “I follow you, my king,” she says, “even into that blackness. Who knows? There might be live things in there – and while your blood may protect you from the Dead, a bear might be less respectful.”

Aragorn barks a short laugh. “Very well,” he agrees. “Mardi, Faramir – stay out here. Two swords should suffice us. Hold the horses well; when we return with the Dead, they may well spook, and I cannot blame them. Be ready to ride swiftly.”

Mardi would protest, but she cannot find the words. She dismounts and takes the reins of Boromir’s horse, holding both mounts firmly. Faramir does the same with Aragorn’s horse. Then they watch silently as their king and Boromir walk into blackness.

*

Aragorn is oddly grateful for Boromir at his back as they walk into the unnatural darkness of the Paths of the Dead. Another breathing, warm, living thing in this terrible place is a strong comfort.

Narsil is light in his hand, as perfectly balanced as it always is, and his blood is thrumming in his ears. He stops when the light from the entrance has faded, when there is nothing but blackness around them and he can feel _something_ waiting on every side, and reaches out deliberately to cut his hand on Narsil’s blade.

There is a _hiss_ from all around them, and Boromir turns to put her back to his. He can feel her shaking, though her breath is even. Brave Boromir, who does not know how to surrender. He raises his bloody hand.

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur’s heir,” he tells the listening darkness. “The oath you broke to him, I come to call due. By my blood and right, I summon the Dead of the Hills to serve me. Do you answer?”

There is a long pause, and Aragorn can feel the Dead drawing closer. Just as he begins to despair – to think that the Dead have forgotten their oath to Isildur, and that he and Boromir will die here in the darkness – a voice speaks from the blackness. “We answer,” it says, and it is hollow and horrible but the Dead draw back and Aragorn can breathe again.

“We answer,” the voice repeats. “Release us, heir of Isildur. Let us sleep.”

“Not yet,” Aragorn replies, and is glad his voice does not shake. “You have not earned your rest. Follow me to battle, and when the battle is won and I have returned triumphant to the walls of Minas Tirith, I will release you from your long waking.”

There is another long and terrible pause, and Aragorn concentrates on breathing steadily, and then, finally, blessedly, the voice replies, “We will follow the heir of Isildur, and fight at his command. When the walls of Minas Tirith are white before us, we will find rest at last.”

*  
Aragorn walks out of the Paths of the Dead with Boromir at his side and an army behind him, and as their feet clear the threshold, the tunnels crack and fall, and the Paths of the Dead are closed forever.


	29. The Battle Of Rohan

Mardi does not scream when Aragorn and Boromir emerge with the Dead at their heels. She’s really rather proud of that. She does take a sharp breath and a short step back, but she’s pretty sure that’s understandable. And she manages to give Boromir her horse’s reins back with a steady hand, and keep her own horse under control as she mounts, despite the terror of the ghosts not ten feet away. Faramir, she notices when she glances over, is white beneath his tan, but he is neither shaking nor fleeing nor screaming in abject terror, so really they’re both doing quite well as far as Mardi is concerned.

Aragorn has a cut on his hand which Boromir wraps before they mount, and his sword is bloody; Mardi doesn’t ask. What her king does to raise the dead is no business of hers and she doesn’t want to know. What matters is that he wheels his horse and raises his bandaged hand and cries, “We ride for Rohan!” in a great voice, and Mardi kicks her horse into motion and follows him back down the trail. Behind her, the Dead must follow, but Mardi doesn’t look. Her horse’s ears are back and she has to keep reining it in so it doesn’t go plunging down the trail, but that’s all to the good, because if she’s concentrating on controlling the horse, she can’t think about the horrors on their heels.

*

Aragorn dares not push his horse into a gallop: the mountain roads are thin and treacherous, and if his horse founders, he’s not entirely sure that Boromir will be able to pull up in time, not with the Dead behind them making their horses sweat with fear. He knows that every minute lost is another minute that Thengel and Theoden are in danger, that there is a strong likelihood that Eomer and Eowyn are on the battlefield even now, but if he dies here, the Dead will not save Rohan. He doesn’t know what _will_ happen, but he cannot imagine it would be good. There is no other of his blood to set them free: would they become revenants in truth, drinking the blood of the living to sustain their own undeath?

Such thoughts are not reassuring.

At last they top a small rise and he sees the battle below them. The Rohirrim have come out of Edoras, as he knew they would, and they and their horses fight valiantly, but the black horde nearly surrounds them now. Closer to the mountains, he can see the tiny dots which are Thengel and his guards, riding madly towards the enemy. There is no way their charge will do anything but slay them all, but it is a courageous action, the sort of thing a king should do.

And with any luck, the Dead may save them all.

Aragorn raises his bandaged hand and turns in the saddle to face the Dead behind him. “The orcs,” he cries, and the Dead hiss in fury. “Slay the orcs,” he commands. “Save the Rohirrim. Go!”

The Dead flow around Aragorn and his guards like a great river, their passing chilling the living men and women to the bone. Aragorn takes a deep breath as the last of the Dead sweeps by, and turns to his guards.

“We follow them,” he says. “Pray we are in time, and ride with your swords in hand – do not become complacent.”

His guards draw their swords, grim-faced, and he leads them down the hill towards the orcish army. Ahead of them, the Dead are a great grey fog upon the fields, and in the wake of their passing the green grass is dry and sere.

*

Theoden follows his father to their deaths, and though he tries to focus on the coming battle, on whatever tactics can be used with only four warriors, he cannot help a certain bitter fury at his father. If Thengel had not conceived this insane plan to take the kingdom of Gondor from its rightful heir – and Theoden does not doubt that Aragorn is the rightful heir, since it explains so much about him, and also Theoden has heard certain rumors about a palantir which Thengel was pleased to ignore – if Thengel had not taken two thirds of the warriors of Rohan to besiege Minas Tirith, this army of orcs would have been discovered and destroyed long since. But the tiny remnant of the army which remains, the old men and barely-blooded youngsters under Morwen’s command…well, they will fight valiantly, and Theoden will probably predecease them, but he knows full well that the orcish army before him is the death of Rohan. If they are very, very lucky, the refugees will be received in Minas Tirith, but that assumes that there will be refugees.

Thengel has destroyed his own kingdom in his greed for another, and Theoden tries hard not to waste his last moments in hating his own father.

And then the orcs are before them, and Theoden’s sword rises glinting in the sunlight, and there is no room to think about anything but battle.

*

By the time Aragorn and his guards reach the battlefield, most of the battle is over. Corpses of orcs lie strewn across the ground, and the Dead have gathered around the last few holdouts. The Rohirrim, dismounted, are collecting their dead and wounded, and Aragorn promises himself that he will go and offer his help as a healer as soon as may be. But first, he rides for the little knot of horses, all without riders, which marks where Theoden joined the battle.

One of Thengel’s guards is down in a heap, and will never rise again. The second is standing guard, but one of his arms is limp and bloody, and Mardi swings off her horse and begins ripping pieces from her tunic to bind it up. Aragorn notices distantly that Mardi reacts well in a crisis; that is good. Theoden, his head bloody but otherwise apparently unharmed, is kneeling on the ground with his father’s head in his lap, and as Aragorn dismounts, he can see full well that Thengel is past helping.

He kneels down beside his friend, and Theoden holds up a hand to stay his words. Thengel is not looking at his son or his erstwhile rival; instead, he stares across the field at the Rohirrim, and their proud leader on her tall horse, white hair evident even at this distance. Finally he speaks. “Theoden King,” he says, “rule more wisely than I have done.”

And he is gone.

Theoden raises dry eyes from his father’s corpse, and Aragorn offers his hand. “We will help you bear him home,” he says, and Theoden nods solemnly.

“I thank you,” he replies. Then he smiles, a lopsided wry expression with no real humor in it. “Your contest with my father was to see if you could raise the Dead,” he says mildly. “I rather think you have won it, heir of Isildur, and in your victory have saved my people also. I and mine will not challenge you again, and I will return with you to Minas Tirith to bring my army home.”

“Thank you,” says Aragorn, and bends to lift Thengel’s body in his arms. Boromir brings his horse, and they lay the body gently across it, and turn to cross the field to where Morwen sits, a widow unknowing on her proud horse.


	30. Two Armies At The Gates

Ecthelion is brought to the gates by a flustered runner, his message garbled and panicked. _Someone_ is coming, a vast army of someones, in fact, and Ecthelion, who is rather worried about the army which is _already_ camped on the plain outside his city, is less than pleased to be told that there is _another_ army on its way. The way Ecthelion’s life has been going, it will be Southrons or dwarves or something malevolent out of Mordor.

In a way, Ecthelion decides when the army gets close enough for his old eyes to decipher, it is almost worse. The Dead are coming, thousands upon thousands of them, and the living men riding before them are small and few. There is no guarantee that one of them is Aragorn, nor that Aragorn can control them: for all Ecthelion knows, the Dead of the Hills are coming to wipe Minas Tirith off the map in some odd vengeance rational only to the dead.

By the time the Dead reach the walls, most of the population of Minas Tirith is lining the parapets, those who have not fled for the deep caverns in a vain bid to hide themselves. Who can hide from the Dead? Most of the people of the city have decided that if they are going to die, they will do it on the walls, facing their enemies, and are hoping that perhaps – just perhaps – their king-to-be really has raised the Dead to do his bidding, and this whole thing is just a particularly impressive proof of his bloodline and credentials.

Ecthelion is encouraging that hope. He does not believe it himself, but panicking will not help anyone at this point.

*

Despite the Dead in ranks behind him – or perhaps because of them, though the chill they bring with them is a dreadful thing – Aragorn is not downhearted as he rides towards Minas Tirith with Theoden at his side. Behind them, Boromir and Faramir and the newly minted Ambassadors to Gondor, Eomer and Eowyn, are riding together, speaking to each other in low voices. Eomer has a broken arm, and Eowyn lost quite a lot of blood before Aragorn could staunch her wounds, but they are well enough to ride and to flirt, so it could definitely be worse. Theoden is lucky that his niece and nephew and son all survived the battle. The Dead arrived before the Rohirrim could be overwhelmed, but there are many in the army which waits at Minas Tirith who will be mourning fathers or sons, mothers or daughters, come evening.

Morwen Steelsheen remains in Rohan, proud as ever, and Theoden has gladly left her as regent in his place as he returns to Gondor to retrieve his army. She led the Rohirrim in the battle as a queen should do, from the front, and those who survived the battle speak of her courage and ferocity in awed tones. Already there are songs being written about her. Aragorn will be glad to learn them, and to sing them, in days to come.

As they near Minas Tirith, Aragorn can see the people beginning to line the walls, though no cheers greet him. That is understandable; he himself has taken many days to grow used to the presence of the Dead, and even now he finds them distressing when he approaches them, which he must do every night to ask them to remain far from the campsite so that the living can find rest. Hopefully, if bringing the Dead to Minas Tirith does not impress his people, dismissing them will do so.

*

Ecthelion waits on top of the walls for Aragorn to join him. Technically, he should probably have greeted his king-to-be at the gates, but Ecthelion is an old man, and set in his ways, and stairs are hard for him. He has climbed the wall once today, and that is quite enough.

Aragorn doesn’t seem to mind. A very even-tempered man, this heir of Isildur; a good thing, that, in a young king. (Ecthelion tends to think that anyone who does not have white hair is young.) His bodyguards are quicker to anger and to laugh, but then, they are even younger than Aragorn is, and what can one expect of young men these days?

When Aragorn reaches the top of the wall, Ecthelion bows and greets him formally, and Aragorn smiles at him. Beside him, Theoden of Rohan stands solemnly, but there is no sign of Thengel. Aragorn turns to look out over the crowds: the people of Minas Tirith within the walls, and the Rohirrim camped without. Slowly, they quiet, until the faint whinny of a horse carries through the still air like a trumpet. Then, at last, Aragorn speaks.

“My people,” he says, “Three weeks ago King Thengel of Rohan challenged me to prove my place as your rightful king, and I swore to do so by bringing the Dead, who swore themselves to Isildur my ancestor, to the very walls of Minas Tirith. Is there any here who will dispute the fact that I have done so?”

A murmur of dissent goes through the crowd. Indeed, there is the Army of the Dead, and there is Aragorn; there is little room for interpretation here.

“In a little while, I will dismiss them,” Aragorn continues as the murmurs die away. “They will go to their rest, which they have awaited so long. Yet first, we owe them our thanks.” There are sounds of confusion now: what have the Dead done that they should thank them?

In plain words, Aragorn describes the journey to the Paths of the Dead; the sighting of the army of orcs; the raising of the Dead and the battle which saved Rohan from its enemies. As he speaks, the Rohirrim without the walls pale and clutch at each others’ arms: that their kingdom nearly fell while they waited here in idleness is news they like not the hearing of. Ecthelion winces in sympathy. Had he been anywhere but Minas Tirith when the Nazgul came, twenty years ago and more, he would not be able to hold up his head for the shame.

Theoden steps forward to tell of his father’s death. The Rohirrim cry out in horror and dismay: their king is dead. And then one of them raises a new cry: “Long live Theoden King!”

It echoes off of the walls of Minas Tirith, and Theoden raises his hands in acknowledgement.

“King I am of Rohan,” he replies in a great voice, “and brother king to Aragorn of Gondor; for I renounce, now and for all time, any claim to the throne of Gondor, in favor of its true king.”

The Rohirrim cheer, and cheer again; what else can they do? And with this final confirmation that he has proved his point thoroughly and without a doubt, Aragorn steps to the edge of the parapet and faces the Army of the Dead.

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur,” he says to the waiting revenants. “By right of blood I raised you to fulfill your oath, and now, in Isildur’s name, I hold that oath fulfilled. Go in peace to your rest, men of the Hills, and rise no more.”

There is a great sigh from the ranks of the Dead, and then, slowly at first, they begin to fade, and with them the unnatural chill. At last there is nothing left of them except a faint wisp of grey mist, which fades away in the sunlight, and the dry grass where they stood. Ecthelion takes a full breath for the first time since he saw the Dead approaching, and turns to his king.

“Your Majesty,” he says, voice clear above the crowd, “when shall we hold your coronation?”


	31. Coronation Plans

Aragorn had not quite realized that planning a coronation involved _quite_ so many tiny, nitpicky, hairsplitting decisions, all of which apparently _must_ be made by the king-to-be. Making the guest list, that he had expected, and the invitations have all been sent out (some by palantir to Rivendell, to be passed on to Belegost). Costume decisions, too, he had expected, and had made with little fuss. But these lists and charts of seating arrangements, questions of whether and when to have trumpets blown or kettledrums beaten, irregularities in the history books which mean that some parts of the ceremony must be created out of whole cloth…Aragorn has never seen such a pile of useless pieces of paper in his life, and Ecthelion’s Chief of Protocol, a man as unlike stolid Balin as can be imagined, flutters at him over the pile and insists that every piece is as important as the one before.

Aragorn is actually glad when Ecthelion comes in wearing a face which suggests some grave problem has arisen. Finally, something worthwhile to do! He sends the Chief of Protocol away without another thought, though the man protests all the way through the door.

Ecthelion sits at Aragorn’s gesture with a faint sigh of relief, and Aragorn is reminded again that Ecthelion is quite an old man by the standards of Gondor, old and ill and frail. It is not a pleasant thought.

“My lord king,” Ecthelion begins slowly, “there is somewhat which has begun to occupy my mind.”

“Tell me,” Aragorn urges, “and I will ease your mind if I may.”

“When I am gone,” Ecthelion says, “will there be a Steward still in Gondor? For my son is dead, and my daughters have no sons of an age to take my place. Yet perhaps you have decided that there is no more need for Stewards, now that the king is come again.”

Aragorn frowns. “I had not thought of it,” he confesses, and turns to his ever-present bodyguards. “Boromir, have you any thought of this?”

“Why do you ask your guard?” Ecthelion demands. “What does he know of the high calling of the Stewardship?”

“I know enough,” says Boromir evenly. “My father’s name was Denethor, son of Ecthelion, and traitor to the city. It would be fitting should the mantle of the Steward fall to me. Yet I think, my lord king, that you will have quite enough problems with your noble subjects without naming a woman to the Stewardship as well, and so what claim I have, I give to Faramir – that will make a fair dowry for him, at any rate, and Eowyn will be pleased.”

Faramir makes a faint sound of objection at being given a _dowry_ , but Ecthelion’s exclamation of horrified disbelief drowns it out.

“A _woman_?” he demands. “A woman as your bodyguard’s chief? And – and,” he lapses into silence for a moment, mouth working but no words emerging, “and my _granddaughter_?”

Aragorn shrugs. “She is loyal and highly skilled. How else should I choose a bodyguard? As to her being your granddaughter – I found her in straits I would not leave a dog to. She may well be your blood, Steward of Gondor, but I do not think she has benefitted from it.”

Boromir laughs. “It is my mother’s blood I have most pride in,” she adds, “for Finduilas was loyal even unto death, and so shall I be too. That I am of Denethor’s blood I care not; and what have Ecthelion or Dol Amroth done for me, that my king has not done more, and ten times over more again?”

Aragorn smiles at her. “All I have done for you is amply repaid by your loyalty,” he says, then nods decisively. “Faramir shall have the Stewardship, if it pleases him.”

“My king, as you command; it would be my pleasure to serve you thus,” Faramir replies easily.

“Then when you become Steward, I shall send you to Dol Amroth, you and Eowyn if she will go with you, and you may watch over the southern part of my kingdom in my name, and send reports to me.” Aragorn considers a moment. “My mother, when I spoke to her in the palantir, promised to bring me the last two palantiri, which are in the north, near the Shire; one of those I shall send with you that we may speak often, and one I shall give to Theoden, as a gift to our ally.”

Ecthelion has sat silent, gaping at the exchanges, and Aragorn looks over at him solemnly. “You have been a faithful Steward to my line,” he says, “and I give you all honor for that. But I tell you now that should I ever so betray children of my blood as you have these of yours, I should count myself a failure and resign my throne, for if I cannot care for my own flesh and blood, how shall I care for my kingdom?”

Ecthelion rises and bows to Aragorn. “Your Majesty,” he says, and he looks old indeed, “I ask permission to depart.”

Aragorn gives it, and watches the old man leave. Then he turns to Boromir. “Was I too harsh?”

Boromir shakes her head. “My king,” she says softly, “the hardships we have told you were but a bare fraction of our lives; indeed, had either of our grandfathers shown the slightest interest in our lives, we would not have been upon the street where you found us. The only person who ever gave a damn about us after Mother died was Parsha, and she could hardly give us the support we needed, constrained as she was by the little Dol Amroth sent her. Had Ecthelion ever thought of us – even a word, even a gesture which indicated that our father’s treason did not taint us too – we should have been so much better off it is hardly imaginable. Yet I think he cast all thought of Denethor from his mind; indeed, I do not think he knew we existed until this hour.”

Aragorn shakes his head. He will _never_ understand the way Men seem not to value their children. Any child of elves or dwarves or hobbits is as cherished as a fine treasure, unless the parent is quite mad. “While I live, you will have a place by my side,” he promises, “you and your families.” Then he smiles. “Which reminds me – when may I expect your marriages?”

Boromir mock-scowls at her king. “Not until well after your coronation,” she says. “I want no distractions until then. The possibilities for assassination are absurd!”

Faramir grins. “Eowyn wants to remain unwed a while longer,” he says cheerfully. “I think she’s planning to see how many hearts she can break before your crowning, my king. Which you should probably get back to planning!”

Aragorn drops his head into his hands in mostly fake dismay. “Please ask her not to cause any diplomatic incidents,” he says, and Faramir laughs. Then, sighing, Aragorn lifts his head and gestures to the door. “I suppose you’d better let the Chief of Protocol back in,” he admits. “Unfortunately.”

Boromir manages to stop laughing before she opens the door.


	32. The Guests

Aragorn has invited representatives of many kingdoms to his coronation, and he’s rather pleased with the turnout when they finally begin to arrive. Theoden of Rohan is the first to arrive, of course, and his niece and nephew are already at the palace in Minas Tirith as ambassadors.

The Lady Galadriel of Lorien enters the city with the embassy from Rivendell: Lord Elrond and his daughter, Arwen of the Healing Hands, and Glorfindel of ancient fame. The people of Minas Tirith line the streets to cheer them and whisper to one another of the ethereal beauty of the elves, their ageless majesty. Aragorn greets them as formally as he knows how, and tries not to beam too widely when Arwen returns his greeting with a broad smile and a tight embrace.

Gilraen accompanies the delegation from Belegost, along with a large company of Rangers, and brings with her the two palantiri from the Tower Hills and the lost city of Annuminas. Aragorn cannot help his joy at seeing his mother, and takes immense pleasure in introducing her to the incredulous Boromir and Mardi, who are both nearly struck dumb with astonishment and awe. Gilraen takes them both happily under her wing.

Aragorn is deeply honored that King Thorin actually left Belegost to accompany Prince Bilbo on this journey, and greets him with great respect. Thorin has, of course, brought bodyguards for himself and his husband, and Aragorn cannot blame him: Dwalin and a solemn-faced dwarf whose name Aragorn never catches for Thorin, and cheerful Gimli and terrifying Bifur for Bilbo. Ori, too, has accompanied his king. They bring greetings and congratulations from Balin and Lady Dis, who have remained behind to watch over the kingdom, from Bofur and Bombur and Kili and Primrose. Bilbo explains that he is also there on behalf of the Shire, most of whose people do not care to leave, and that in their baggage are a number of gifts from the Shire for the new king. Aragorn has a sinking suspicion that there is at least one barrel of hobbit moonshine in the baggage.

Lord Fili arrives from Moria only a few days after his uncle, and brings with him young Thrain, wide-eyed at the crowds of Men. Thrain is just a few years past twenty, still a child by his peoples’ reckoning, but he is well-behaved and cheerful, and the courtiers and commoners are charmed by the dwarfling. Aragorn makes a mental note: children, especially adorable well-behaved ones, are popular with his people.

The envoys from the Greenwood and Dale and Erebor arrive at what Aragorn suspects are carefully calculated intervals from each other. Legolas is first, and greets Aragorn with great good cheer. Aragorn takes great pleasure in directing him towards the suite where the delegation from Belegost is staying, and spends a few minutes anticipating the stunned expressions on his courtiers’ faces when they realized that Legolas and Gimli are in love. Aragorn knows he should not be so amused by shocking his courtiers, but really, how can you not think Legolas and Gimli are adorable?

Young lord Girion of Dale – twenty-five now, and a man grown, but Aragorn remembers the child at Bard’s knee – is less forward with his greeting, polite and reticent as befits such a young lord in such a great company. Aragorn is kind to him, and Gilraen leads him away – Gilraen has always been good at calming peoples’ nerves.

Aragorn is a little surprised by the envoy from Erebor: Dolur son of Bombur, the stonemason. On a second’s thought, however, he realizes that Dolur is, after all, the queen’s brother, and son of a dwarf known to be friends with Aragorn. It’s a good choice, and Aragorn is glad to greet Kes’ brother. Dolur is polite, if gruff, but he perks up considerably when Aragorn mentions setting up a tour of the caverns beneath the citadel, and goes off smiling at the thought of being underground again. Dwarves, as far as Aragorn is concerned, are remarkably easy to keep happy.

The three envoys from the Haradrim, invited for courtesy’s sake, are tall and dark and dour, and that is about all Aragorn can say about them.

There are more foreigners in Minas Tirith than there have been in many years; the Chief of Protocol is going nearly mad trying to keep all of them happy; and Aragorn, his coronation staring him in the face, is immensely grateful for the presence of his friends and mentors.

…And Arwen. He is always grateful for her presence, after all. And now that he is very nearly king of Gondor, perhaps – just perhaps – if he lays his heart at her feet, she will find him worthy.

*

Boromir is more than a little worried about the crowds of important people coming to see her king crowned. Oh, to be sure, most of them are fast friends of Aragorn, if his tales are true, but that just means that the members of the court who are…less than pleased to see the return of the king…will be less than pleased to see his guests, as well. And though the palace guards are good men, Boromir has trouble trusting anyone but her brother and possibly Mardi with her king’s safety. Which means that Boromir is running a little short on sleep, and perhaps does not have the control over her tongue that she might like.

Lady Galadriel is beautiful and terrifying. Lord Elrond is stately and terrifying. Lady Arwen is beautiful and a hero out of legend, and Boromir is very careful to keep a straight face as Aragorn greets her, because the poor man pines so very obviously for this elven princess. The embrace that Arwen bestows upon him is a good sign, Boromir thinks, that Aragorn has not been pining in vain. And the king of Gondor is not such a bad match, really.

Gilraen and the Dunedain are marvels, and Mardi and Boromir, side by side behind Aragorn, cannot help staring at their childhood hero and greatest role model come to life. She looks young yet, certainly not the more than sixty years she commands; but then Aragorn does not look forty, either, and has told Boromir that it is the blood of Numenor which still survives in the Dunedain and gives them long and healthy lives. The ones that don’t die in battle, anyhow. Whenever Mardi and Boromir are not guarding their king, they find themselves outside of the rooms assigned to Lady Gilraen, and to their great pleasure, she seems happy to speak with them at length of her adventures.

King Thorin and Prince Bilbo are…astonishing. Boromir has never _quite_ believed Aragorn’s tales of a tiny, hairy-footed people whose prince married a dwarven man and saved the world for love of him, but here they are, in the flesh. Prince Bilbo is small and plump and has golden beads worked into the braids of his hair, and wears a sword small enough for his stature; King Thorin is somehow imposing despite being so much shorter than everyone else, and would actually be a little scary except for his obvious devotion to his smaller mate. Boromir must admit that she deserves the looks of triumph Aragorn sends her when they are announced: yes, yes, his tales were true, the dwarven king and his hobbit husband are real. Aragorn can stop rubbing it in now.

The only other really astonishing envoy is Legolas of the Greenwood, not merely because he is a hero of the Quest of the Ring, but because once he has made his formal greetings to Aragorn and to all his fellow envoys (even King Thorin, who does not like elves), he can be found most reliably at the side of Gimli son of Gloin, the bodyguard of Prince Bilbo. They are, quite clearly, deeply in love – Prince Bilbo seems to think it’s adorable – and the entire court of Minas Tirith is shocked and, in some cases, appalled by their courtship. Boromir’s not sure how she feels about it. On the one hand, they _are_ in love – Gilraen tells her a little of the beginning of their friendship and how it blossomed – and Boromir is not so cruel as to deny someone that pleasure. On the other hand, a dwarf and an elf, and both men: how very, deeply odd!


	33. A Threat

The Lady Galadriel draws Aragorn aside at one of the parties before his coronation. She is tall and beautiful and imposing, and Aragorn follows her onto a private balcony wondering what such a great lady could need to tell him.

“You know that Arwen is my granddaughter,” she says after a few minutes of silence. Aragorn nods.

“She speaks of you with great love, my lady,” he replies.

Galadriel hums agreement, and looks out over Minas Tirith for a long moment. “She is my only granddaughter, and I love her well,” she says at last. “Should living in a city of Men, at a Man’s side, cause her any pain or sorrow, I would be displeased.”

Aragorn blinks in confusion, but he says, “I would do anything to bring the Lady Arwen happiness.”

Galadriel hums again, and smiles an enigmatic smile, and leaves. Aragorn stays on the balcony for a few minutes, wondering if he’s completely misinterpreting that speech. As he is turning to go back in, Arwen comes out onto the balcony, smiling at him.

“You look worried, my friend.”

Aragorn shrugs helplessly. “Your grandmother came out to warn me never to hurt you,” he says. “I haven’t even asked you to marry me yet!” Then he claps a hand over his mouth – that was _not_ what he’d meant to say.

Arwen raises an eyebrow. She is even more radiant than usual tonight, in a gown of midnight blue spangled with tiny diamonds, and the sardonic expression on her face goes ill with her regal bearing. “I know,” she says, and there is an ocean of frustrated patience in her tone.

Aragorn gapes for a long, long moment, and then drops to one knee. “Marry me?”

Arwen smiles as wide as he has ever seen her. “Yes,” she says, and Aragorn thinks that he has never been happier.

*

Boromir is glad that Aragorn is marrying his true love, really she is – goodness know Aragorn’s been pining about this woman as long as Boromir’s known him – but a part of her actually wants to weep in frustration. Idealistic Aragorn is going to be a good king, but being the head of his bodyguard, when he won’t hear a word of a spymaster or another cohort of guards, is an exercise in pointless arguments, and surely an _elven princess_ is going to be just as sweet and naïve about human politics as Aragorn is!

So she approaches this week’s ‘we need a spymaster, no, really, I’m not joking’ discussion with a certain amount of trepidation. Aragorn has always been good about listening to her arguments, even if he doesn’t agree with them, and he hasn’t gotten fed up with her weekly attempt to make him listen to reason, but who knows how an elven princess will react to Boromir’s assertions?

Boromir presents her case, as she does every week: Ecthelion’s spymaster is old, and loyal to Ecthelion. As the assassination attempt proves, there _are_ people in Minas Tirith who want Aragorn dead. A spymaster in Aragorn’s employ would be able to find out _who_ , and, almost more importantly, _how_ they intend to do that. Therefore, Aragorn needs a spymaster.

Aragorn, as always, is opening his mouth to explain that these are his people and he loves and trusts them and will do the right thing by them, and surely he doesn’t need a spymaster for that, when Arwen leans forward and says, incredulously, “You don’t have a spymaster yet?”

Boromir and Aragorn both stare at her in astonishment. Arwen shakes her head. “I know you are thinking that my lord father doesn’t have one and doesn’t need one, but Aragorn, my father has known every elf in Rivendell for a thousand years. You are a newcomer to this city, and even if you weren’t, there are more people in Minas Tirith than are in Rivendell ten times over. You could not know them all if you tried.” She scowls. “Thorin has a spymaster, you know, and Belegost is not even half the size of Minas Tirith. _You need one too._ ”

“Thank the _Valar_ that Aragorn is marrying you,” says Boromir, and blushes when her king turns to stare at her.

*

The Chief of Protocol nearly starts crying when Aragorn informs him that he is engaged. A royal wedding, Aragorn is rather surprised to learn, is even more complicated than a coronation, and to do them at the same time, on so little notice – well, Aragorn is actually a little worried that the poor man will do himself an injury, his face is so red. The past few weeks have not been easy for the Chief of Protocol, what with multiple kings and princes and lords of elven kingdoms milling about the palace. Aragorn knows that his own ignorance of the customs of noble Men is not really helping: while dwarves are perfectly capable of producing a fine spectacle, for the most part they assume that everyone will know who the king is and that therefore the pomp and circumstance that Men would use is pretty much useless. And elves, of course, all know who their lords and ladies are and have done so for more years than Gondor has been without a king. Hobbits don’t even _have_ kings, and the Thains are not given to displays of great wealth and power. Aragorn, raised in so many kingdoms, really doesn’t see the point of a lot of the fuss the Chief of Protocol is making.

Arwen, practical competent _calm_ Arwen, steps in to take over the meeting, and Aragorn watches in something like awe as she gets the Chief of Protocol to take deep breaths and calm down, and explain that a royal wedding among Men involves so much pomp and circumstance and ceremony as to be almost more of a hassle than a coronation. Arwen gets a list of absolutely necessary decisions from him and sends the poor man off to have a bit of a lie-down. Then she looks over at Aragorn and raises an eyebrow. “I think,” she says, “that I and your mother will deal with this. If that poor man has to try to coax you through this in addition to the coronation, he might collapse of exhaustion.”

Aragorn grins sheepishly. “It all seems so silly,” he says. “But then, the only royal wedding I have been to was Kes and Frerin’s, and that was dwarven, and I did not understand any of it anyhow.”

Arwen shakes her head again. “My dear Aragorn,” she says, “I have no doubt that you will be a good king, and I know you are a good man, but I cannot help but think your time with my father in Rivendell has made you more attuned to elves than Men. Let them have their pomp and circumstance, my love; it is Men’s way, you know.”

“Even as you say, so shall I do,” Aragorn promises, and Arwen smiles and leans her head against his shoulder for a moment before rising and going to seek out Gilraen. Aragorn sits there for a few minutes with a rather silly smile on his face before he turns back to the endless paperwork on his desk.


	34. A Coronation

Arwen is pleasantly surprised by the changes five years have wrought on her beloved. Well, five years and the responsibility for two young humans. Boromir and Faramir are sweet and Arwen quite likes them, which is a good thing, given how loyal they are to Aragorn and vice versa.

Minas Tirith is a maze, full of a terrifying number of Men, so much hustle and bustle and commotion; it’s worse than market day in any of the villages they visited on their ten-year journey. Arwen, used to Rivendell and Lorien, is often overwhelmed by the sheer _number_ of people, their shouts and smells and bright colored clothing, their swift movement and screaming children. At times like that, Aragorn is her rock and her anchor, a steady presence which never wavers. She thinks, from what she has seen of his interactions with his guards and the courtiers who spend the most time with him, that it is much the same for them: in this time of great changes, the thing which will not change is the soul of the king, as upright and strong and glorious as the trees of Lorien forever.

That is the man whom Arwen has pledged to marry, the king she will spend her years beside and bind her life to. She thinks, watching him in the weeks before the coronation, that she has made a good choice. He is invariably kind to his subjects, listens to his bodyguards even when he disagrees with them, and does not appear to hold a grudge against anyone. Kings who hold grudges are dangerous, Arwen knows (and carefully does not think about Thorin, whose husband does, after all, mitigate most of his grumpier tendencies). Aragorn’s kind nature is something too many kings do not possess.

It is her pride and pleasure, therefore, to stand among the noble guests on a fine fall day and watch as Aragorn steps onto a balcony before his assembled people. Aragorn is wearing the black and silver of the city, the Tree shining on his chest, and he stands alone for a long moment as the people of Minas Tirith murmur to each other, a low sound like the distant sea.

Then Ecthelion steps up behind him, with the crown in his hand, and Aragorn drops gracefully to one knee. Ecthelion raises the crown high. Arwen knows that Boromir and Faramir and Mardi have been conducting sweeps through every building around the square to make sure that no one with a crossbow is hiding, waiting for this perfect moment to kill the not-yet-king; but nothing so horrible happens. Instead, Ecthelion waits until the crowd has fallen silent, and lowers the crown gently to rest upon Aragorn’s brow. Aragorn stands, and Ecthelion cries out in a startlingly loud voice, “I give you Aragorn, son of Arathorn and Gilraen, King of Gondor! Long live the King!”

The heralds around the edges of the courtyard pick up the cry, and Arwen knows that from the palace, king’s messengers have taken to their horses, carrying the news of the new king to every corner of Gondor.

The cheers start, and Arwen braces herself against the roar of thousands of voices, chanting over and over, “Aragorn! Aragorn!” The only noises Arwen has ever heard which have even come close to the volume of the cheering are the waterfall of the Anduin and the explosion of Mount Doom. It is a noise like the end of a world…

Or one’s beginning.

*

Aragorn doesn’t remember much of his coronation day. The two things he does remember are the unaccustomed weight of the crown upon his head – so different from a helmet, light and yet as heavy as the kingdom – and the noise of the crowd, chanting his name with something like devotion.

And then the formal oath-swearing ceremony, where lines and lines of nobles knelt before him one at a time and swore, with what Aragorn suspects are varying levels of honesty, to obey the new king and all his decrees. There are lords from across Gondor: the prince of Dol Amroth, Boromir and Faramir’s grandfather, who does not recognize them; shabby lords from the West where towns are sparse and life is hard; well-fed men from the eastern cities, Eroch and Linhir and Pelargir, who watch their new king with shrewd eyes and mouth the require words obediently but without emotion.

Through it all, Aragorn is conscious of his bodyguards at his right and left shoulders, ever-vigilant Boromir and clever Faramir, and Mardi across the hall with the honored guests, standing beside Arwen, who watches everything with calm eyes and a slight smile on her placid face. Tomorrow will be a day of rest and feasting, and the day after that, Aragorn will finally place his hand in his beloved’s and swear his heart to hers.

He tries hard not to think about it: his duty is to his people, and so he must take their oaths and hear their speeches of congratulation with his whole attention. But it is hard to turn his mind from the wedding to come, from this culmination of a dream he has held even longer than that of his eventual kingship. Still, he would not be worthy of Arwen if he were anything less than the king he must be, and so he concentrates on his duties. He learns each lord’s name, asks after their wives and children, their interests and the areas they control. This one controls the river trade where the Celos meets the Anduin; that one watches over the Cape of Andrast and makes his living from the tolls that sailors pay for the lighthouses there. Many watch over vast stretches of farmland and villages like the village which the Lefnui flooded fifteen years ago, and Aragorn makes mental notes of their names because he knows full well that they will not like the changes he plans on making to their accustomed privileges.

The nobles of Minas Tirith, for the most part, hold hereditary positions in the government, and Aragorn listens to men with no idea how to handle money tell him that they control trade and taxation, men who would not know which end of a sword to hold tell him that they are in charge of the guard and the remnants of the army, and mouths polite phrases and thinks to himself that someday soon they may not have those offices. Mardi would be a better head of the army than these fools: she at least has some concept of the realities of battle and its aftermath. And Boromir, well, currently she’s the head of the King’s Bodyguard, but she could certainly advise the City Guard as to some better recruiting strategies. Accepting women, for instance. Aragorn’s conversation with the Prince of Dol Amroth only cements his decision to send Faramir into the western part of Gondor to be its viceroy.

In all, it’s rather a productive evening, though the nobles of Gondor, did they know their new king’s thoughts, would not think it so. Boromir, who has learned to read Aragorn quite well, deduces some of what he is thinking, and decides quietly to hire quite a few more bodyguards. Arwen, who can read Aragorn like a book, gathers quite a lot of his intentions, and approves entirely. If any noble hopes to appeal to Aragorn’s future queen for mercy, they will find short shrift there.

The night is long, and full of dull and dangerous conversation, and by the time Aragorn falls into bed, he is quite ready to admit that the social parts of kingship are not his favorite parts. He’s not entirely sure what his favorite parts are, yet, though being married to Arwen is almost certainly going to be one of them, but making small talk with pompous, useless, small-minded nobles really isn’t one of them.

Tomorrow, he decides, he will sleep late and maybe spar with his bodyguards. He’ll need the sleep: he’s pretty sure he won’t get _any_ the night before his wedding. Even long-lost kings of Gondor, it seems, can be a little nervous before such a huge event.

Just before he falls asleep, Aragorn chuckles to himself over the irony: he slept like a baby the night before he was crowned.


	35. At Last, A Wedding

Gilraen has seen many things she did not expect to see, in her sixty years and more upon the world. She has seen a man worth defying her people for, and seen him die too young and violently. She has seen a child born with a prophecy upon his head, and a man grown who fulfills it. She has seen a Ring of Power and the hobbit with a heart so full of love that he was able to destroy even Sauron’s own Ring. She has seen a Nazgul dead at her feet and the sky black with ashes and the Eagles of Manwe bearing heroes safely to a white city. She has seen dwarves married to hobbits, and an elf fall in love with a dwarf, and a new race created. Many of the things she has seen have been good ones, but, she thinks, the best thing she may ever see in this life is the expression of her son as he stands hand in hand with his true love on his wedding day.

Arwen is, of course, radiantly beautiful – she can hardly help it, after all, and the white gown which three seamstresses fought for the right to make is perfectly fitted to her perfect form. The circlet on her brow is set with pearls and diamonds, and more are scattered across the dress, and she looks like a dream of the ocean foam brought to life, or the reflection of stars. Gilraen knows that everyone who sees her will tell their children tales of the elven princess who looked just as a princess ought on her wedding day, as beautiful as the dawn.

Aragorn looks…regal, actually, and isn’t that a strange thing to think about your own son. But he wears his new rank well, the crown on his head complementing his grave expression and straight shoulders, and there is that about his eyes which suggests that he is wiser than his years. Gilraen can tell that he is making some effort not to beam – it would be inappropriate for a king, though perfectly common for a man on his wedding day – and that his fingers are clasped firmly around Arwen’s, as though he never wants to let go. His smile keeps sneaking out around the corners of his mouth, and his eyes are bright with joy, and he speaks his vows in a firm voice which echoes around the courtyard.

Galadriel is presiding. There had been some uproar about that, but she’s really the only person with enough power to command the respect of both the elves of Rivendell and the Men of Gondor, other than Lord Elrond, and Lord Elrond is the bride’s father. No one has given the bride away, as Gilraen knows is the human custom: she is an adult of her people, and she gives herself, as Aragorn gives himself in equal measure.

The ceremony is outside, of course – imagine an elf marrying in a stone hall! – near the White Tree. Gandalf, who came to Minas Tirith only days before the coronation, brought with him a sapling of that ancient line, which stands now behind Galadriel in the place of honor. It is a good omen: a new Tree for a new king, new life in this ancient city. Galadriel and Elrond have both blessed it, and Bilbo has given the gardeners some good hobbitish advice on soil quality and suchlike. There are crowds on every rooftop of the city, staring up at the wedding party, though most will be able to see little but the white brilliance of Arwen’s dress. The courtiers line the walls of the palace, three and four people deep, and lean out of every window and balcony. It will be a thing of great pride, in years to come, Gilraen knows, to say you were at the king’s wedding. Tales will be told of the king’s grave joy, the new queen’s glorious beauty, the wise words Galadriel speaks and the blessings Gilraen and Elrond give their children. That is the way of royal weddings, after all.

Invitations to the party afterwards are as rare as hen’s teeth, and as sought after as Rings of Power. Against the wishes of his Chief of Protocol, Aragorn has arranged for a small celebration, as such things go: only family and personal friends, with no places for political climbers. Bilbo breaks out the hobbit moonshine, and Gilraen limits herself to a sensible half a glass – it would not do to become drunk at her son’s wedding, after all. Aragorn drinks none of it, but here in the safety of the private party, he lets his happiness show on his face, and seems almost drunk on joy as he dances with his new wife. Gilraen is proud, prouder than she will ever be able to give voice, that her son has grown into such a man as this, who can be worthy of the throne of Gondor and the hand of Arwen Evenstar.

*

Arwen suspects, as her new husband leads her to the Royal Apartments – husband! What a marvelous word! – that Aragorn has very little experience with women. Where would he have acquired it, after all? In Rivendell, where every elf would see him as a child? In Belegost, half again the height of every elf and dwarf, and seen there too as a sort of student, not a full adult? Perhaps in Dale, but Arwen thinks he would have mentioned that in among his tales of awkward human flirtations. Not in their ten years in Gondor – Arwen would have noticed that. And Boromir has told her, laughing, of Aragorn’s baffled embarrassment when he discovered her true gender – Arwen does not think that any of the women of Rohan managed to break past Aragorn’s reserve.

And then, too, she knows full well that Aragorn has loved her half his life and more. He is as faithful as an elf, her king and husband; once he decided on her, he would not have betrayed her, even though no words had yet been spoken, no promises made.

It is fortunate, then, that among those elves who have not yet found their mates, it is considered no disgrace to take one’s pleasure with another similarly unattached elf. Arwen has had a thousand years and more as an adult among her people, and there were those in Lorien who found her fair indeed, and whose propositions she accepted in the spirit in which they were made. Two virgins in a bed is one too many, Arwen knows – at least if one wishes to get anything pleasurable done, and not simply fumble at each other all night – and Arwen definitely wishes to consummate her marriage.

Aragorn flushes red and fumbles with the buttons on her gown when she turns her back to offer them to him, there beside the big bed with its silver curtains; but she expected that. This shyness, too, is part of Aragorn, beside the courage and the courtesy and the boundless nobility. This, too, Arwen loves. She waits patiently while he unbuttons her, and lets him hang the dress carefully in a wardrobe where it will not be marred by dirt or wrinkles. Careful, thoughtful Aragorn.

Only then does he turn to look at her, and Arwen, smiling, sees everything in his eyes: love, and desire, and awe. She holds out her hands, welcoming, and says, “Husband, come to me.”

Aragorn obeys.

*

Aragorn lies awake for some time after Arwen has drifted off to sleep, a warm and wonderful and precious weight in his arms. He is a bit relieved, honestly, that she knew what she was doing, and was willing to teach him, given how very little experience Aragorn has had with this sort of thing. None, that is. He knows that other Men do not wait so long, even that some of them betray their own wives and sire children on women out of wedlock, but he is not built like that, he thinks. It is probably the years in Rivendell and Belegost which taught him to wait for true love, and then to cling to it with every bit of strength in him.

Arwen is…wonderful to hold, to touch, to kiss. She is everything he has ever wanted in a wife, a queen, a lifemate. The things she knows…Aragorn is a little in awe of her, even now when he has seen her with her face lit up in pleasure and her pale skin glowing in the light of the lamps. She is wise and good and kind and clever and…even in his own mind he knows he’s being a little worryingly sappy, but is it not right to do so on one’s wedding night when one is holding one’s beloved in one’s arms?

Tomorrow he will have to take up his crown and his robes of state, to pass judgments and give decrees and begin the long and painful process of dragging Gondor out of the morass of tradition and custom in which it has mired itself, these long years without a king. It is the job of a lifetime, even so long a lifetime as Aragorn knows he will have. But just for tonight, he wraps his arms a little more firmly around his own true love, and buries his nose in her long dark hair – it smells faintly of cinnamon, and moonlight – and falls asleep smiling, without a single care in all the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends The King In Waiting; the next story in the Coats & Customs ‘verse will be The Reign of King Aragorn. I will start posting that on October 2nd, all things being equal. There are at least two stories after that one, too.
> 
> As always, many thanks to my Best Beloved, who betaed this for me. Thanks also to everyone who left kudos or comments: the story is vastly improved by your input, and my day is always brighter for knowing people like the story.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Terrifying and Beautiful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485214) by [Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw)




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